


Abandoned

by Anchanee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Aftermath of Dubious Consent, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anchor Harold, Anchor Root, Angst, BAMF Grace, BAMF Nathan, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kara Stanton is a bitch!, M/M, Multi, NaNoWriMo2016, Shape Shifter John Reese, Shape Shifter Sameen Shaw, Shape Shifters, Trust Issues, grace knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anchanee/pseuds/Anchanee
Summary: John gets dumped on a Mexican landfill. Because who would want an operative with a conscience, or a shape-shifter who can't just obey?

shape–shifter  (noun, \ˈshāp-ˌshif-tər\)
While a shapeshifter is considerably stronger, faster and possesses sharper senses than a comparable human, a shifter is also prone of succumbing to the animal's instincts. An anchor (always human, never another shifter) will be able to keep these instincts lashed by providing stability and order. Commonly these humans are referred to as 'masters' or 'owners' (the later is discouraged since a shifter is, at principle, still a sentient human being and falls under the Genevan Convention, thus can’t be owned). On rare occurrences, individuals have reported the empathic bond to be mutual. Though the shifter is not able to force his will on the human, the human is, in situations of great distress, able to pick up empathic feedback from his or her thrall.

  I'm still looking for a beta-reader to clean up my mistakes. If anybody would take it upon him- or herself, I would be really grateful.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After watching the last episode of Person of Interest, I was quite irritated. Yet after thinking about it for a while, I realized that every character had the perfect ending, the only ending possible for them. I bow to the creators of the show to make that possible. It couldn't have been easy.
> 
> However, the fact that I admire their final plot, does not mean that I am happy with it. Being a romantic at heart, I need a happily ever after! So, I wrote one for myself. During research I found this cute picture of a dog and decided that John being a shape-shifter would serve my needs. Additionally, I admire Grace's character so much, so I decided to give her more room in my story than she has on the show. I tried to stay true to the characters but shifted the time-lines a bit. It was the only way to have my story work as intended.
> 
> This story is the product of NaNoWriMo 2016 so in addition of it having more than 50.000 words (~ 54.000 after first editing) it is also complete. I would lie to you if I said that I was happy with every single chapter, but this is as good as it gets in such a narrow time frame. I hope to find a beta who helps me with my spelling errors. They kind of happen since I'm not English native.
> 
> In case the second chapter won't be out before the 25th, I wish all of you a very, merry Christmas and a happy New Year. Enjoy the time with your family even if they are nagging and loud and sometimes uncomfortable. Never forget that those people love you above all others.
> 
> My best wishes to all of you  
> Anchanee

### The Ferry Bombing

"Did you know?"

Everybody is relevant to someone …

 

 

### shape–shifter

  (noun, \ˈshāp-ˌshif-tər\\)

Definition:     A shapeshifter is an individual who possesses the ability to transform (or metamorphose) into an animal. Most common animal forms are simian, feline or canine in origin, but it is rumoured that avian shapeshifters exist as well.

Dangers:        While a shapeshifter is considerably stronger, faster and possesses sharper senses than a comparable human, a shifter is also prone of succumbing to the animal's instincts. An anchor (always human, never another shifter) will be able to keep these instincts lashed by providing stability and order. All anchor's commands are compelling for the shifter, not to be disobeyed. Commonly these humans are referred to as 'masters' or 'owners' (the later is discouraged since a shifter is, at principle, still a sentient human being and falls under the Genevan Convention, thus can’t be owned). On rare occurrences, individuals have reported the empathic bond to be mutual. Though the shifter is not able to force his will on the human, the human is, in situations of great distress, able to pick up empathic feedback from his or her thrall.  
Since shapeshifters without anchors are known succumb to their animalistic nature, sooner or later, losing all sense of their human self. All shifters must be registered with an anchor, within six months after their first transformation.

 

 

### Harold

Nathan had known, Harold realized, when gazing at the monitor in the library, horrified by the list of names his machine had known would die today.

‘It should have been me.’

‘Why have I been so blind?’

'Oh, god, Nathan, forgive me.'

Harold couldn't go on. Everything hurt. His back, his neck, his legs. But worst of all, his heart. Nathan had trusted him, had called him his friend and Harold had sacrificed him on the altar of hubris. It had to be his way or none and his best friend … his only friend, had paid the price.

The clock struck twelve and the list of irrelevant numbers was deleted. The ferry bombing had taken so many and Harold was only able to see the face of one. Nathan had reached him at the landing stage, smiling, clapping his shoulder, telling him that had had known all along that Harold would see reason. His best friend had been convinced they would be able to do this together: the right thing! Because no human was ever irrelevant.

Then the bomb had gone off and the force of the blast had thrown them off their feet. Harold had lost consciousness and when he woke, he had searched desperately for his friend. But Nathan hadn't been in the tent with the other wounded. That could only mean one thing … the knowledge had torn Harold apart.

When Grace had entered, he hadn't been ready … hadn't felt like he deserved her support and receive comfort. This was all his fault. Had he just listened, maybe they could have kept this from happening. They were no heroes, just two smart middle−aged IT guys, but maybe they would have found a way. Now Harold would never know. He had watched the love of his life clutch the book with her engagement−ring before turning away. Her tears burned into his very soul but he couldn't reveal himself. He didn't deserve someone as good as Grace. Not with all these lives on his conscience.

 

 

### Will

When Nathan opened his eyes, all he saw was white. For a heartbeat, he pondered death, but decided that nobody would hurt this much in the afterlife. The grainy ceiling of a hospital room swam into focus. Despite his initial disorientation, he could recall the last seconds before the bomb had gone off with disturbing clarity. Frantically he tried to sit up, he had to find Harold. His best friend had been right in front of him when the blast had pushed him off his feet. With trembling fingers, Nathan reached for the call−button.

"Mister Ingram, it's so good to see you awake. We were worried about …"

But Nathan cut her off. "Harold," he rasped out. "My friend, Harold … Wren … where is he?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Mr. Ingram," the woman replied apologetic. "But if you lie back and relax, I promise to find him for you."

Nathan didn't want to relax. He wanted to know where Harold was. His best friend had cushioned his fall. But before he had been able to determine what had happened a flaring, hot pain slicing over his back had stolen his senses. Trembling he tried to reach for his mobile on the bedside table, but his hands simply didn't want to cooperate. Fumbling for his phone, his son burst through the door, tackling him on the bed. After several moments fighting his weakness, Nathan managed to forced his arms to pull Will close.

"I thought … I was afraid that … oh my god, dad …"

Wet sliding down his neck, made Nathan hug his son harder, comforting the boy. "Shhh … it's alright Will. I'm alright. Don't worry."

After several minutes, Will pulled back, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. "I came here as soon as I heard. I just couldn't get out until yesterday, but I flew straight to New York. I've been waiting for you to wake up ever since. They said that you have a slight swelling at the base of your frontal cortex. The tests were inconclusive so we couldn't determine if … there was any … permanent damage until you woke."

Reaching out with trembling fingers Nathan gently caressed his son's face. "It's alright now, Will. I'll be fine in no time. But what about Harold? He was right in front of me when the bomb went off."

"I …," Will admitted in a small voice. "We don't know, dad. Dozens were wounded. Many people died. They haven't found all the bodies yet."

Clenching his teeth, rejecting the idea of his best friend dying because he, Nathan, had decided to unburden his conscience by talking to a reporter, he tried to sit up and lower the railing to climb out of bed. "We have to find him."

His son, however, had more sensible ideas.

"You can't, dad. You must rest. You were severely wounded, have lost a lot of blood. You were lucky because the damage was distributed over a big part of your body, mainly from debris, but they nearly … they nearly lost you on the table. You have to rest, at least for a week, before you can even think of getting out bed!"

"Two days!"

"Five!"

"Three."

"Deal."

He would never admit it, especially not to Will, but Nathan already felt drained and he had only been awake for a few, scarce minutes. His son, didn't seem to be any better. Under his tan he looked pasty and the circles under his eyes were nearly purple. Softly, Nathan inquired, "When was the last time you slept, Will?"

Sinking into the chair by the bed, relaxing when his father settled, Will confessed, "I catnapped on the plane. Before that, … I don't know, what day is it?"

Patting the lower part of the bed, the white−haired man prompted, "Sleep. I promise, I'll be here when you wake up.”

Nathan knew that his son loved his job with the Doctors without Borders. The fact that he had abandoned his work and had come here on such short notice, told him better than anything, how severe the danger was he had been in. But he was awake now, ready to make things right. He watched his son, who curled up at his side. Will still seemed agitated, unable to relax. After a few moments, Nathan reached out for his hand, entwining their fingers. Calmed by the familiar touch, the boy exhaled slowly and succumbed to a restful sleep. Nathan followed after a minute.

 

 

### Grace

Fortunately, the Doctors without Borders were quite lenient, if a relative stared on a catastrophe on national television. Still, after not leaving his father's bedside for three more days, Will had to catch up with his 'day job' and make arrangements for his return to Africa. He had offered to stay in New York but, as Nathan had pointed out, they had the money to hire the best care. The tribe in Africa, Will had helped vaccinate, didn't have anybody.

With his son occupied, Nathan finally got the chance to do his own research. With shaking fingers, he straightened his jacked before climbing the stairs to Grace Hendricks' house. Despite his and Will's best efforts, Harold remained elusive. Neither had they been able to produce a sign of life, nor their friend's body. Nathan was sure that, if anybody knew about Harold, it would be the woman he had wanted to share his life with. The doorbell had merely chimed once before a pale and tired looking red−head opened. She seemed exhausted and sad. Wrapping her cardigan around her frail body, she asked in a raspy voice, "Can I help you?"

"Miss Hendricks, I'm sorry to barge in like that but I wanted to ask if you have heard anything about Harold."

Swallowing around a constricting throat, Grace studied the distinguished gentlemen at her doorstep. "You're Nathan, aren't you? Nathan Ingram. Harold, he … talked so much about you."

And before Nathan could reply the woman dissolved into tears. Helplessly he hugged her and guided her into the living−room. He could barely carry his own weight, but refused to use crutches. Her additional weight didn’t increase his stability, but she was his best friend's fiancé, he wouldn't let her fall. Luckily, Grace was but a wisp of a woman. Manoeuvring her onto the couch, he helplessly sank into the cushions beside her.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ingram …" she choked, pulling out another tissue.

"Nathan, please." He corrected instinctively, pushing the tissue−box a little closer.

"Nathan, I … they said that they had brought everybody they could find into the tent after the bombing. Harold wasn't there, just his belongings. They were not able to produce a body, but they said that people were still buried by debris. I … they think that there is little hope to identify all the corpses."

She was right, of course, but something about this situation didn't sit well with Nathan. He had read up on anything about the ferry bombing. And there certainly were bodies never to be identified because they were crushed beyond recognition. But Harold had been right in front of him. He might have suffered substantial injuries but he should have been easily identified. Just like Nathan himself. The question was, had Harold wanted to be identified?

"Miss Hendricks …," he started reluctantly.

This time she was the one interrupting. "Grace, please."

"Grace, you …"

If Harold was still alive, he might never forgive Nathan for betraying his secrets. If he was dead, it wouldn’t matter. Should his best friend have hidden deliberately, like it was his favourite evasive measure, Nathan would rather have Harold mad at him, than let him slip away. "You know that Harold kept secrets. That there were … things in his life, he didn't share?"

Wringing the tissue, she held, the soft−spoken woman nodded. "Yes, he told me right from the beginning that he did work he … couldn't tell me about, but … but I knew him. Harold was a good man. No matter his secret's I refuse to believe that he was anything but!"

"Well, you are right, but Harold has a way to deal with problems; mostly by hiding or running away."

Incredulous, Grace asked, "You think he is hiding from us? Why would he do such a thing?"

"Because he feels responsible."

"But the bombing was an accident, engine failure. They said so on TV. Nobody could have done anything about that, not even Harold."

Sighing deeply, Nathan closed his eyes. All or nothing, he decided. "Well, that might not be the whole truth."

Pressing her lips together, Grace rose and retreated to the lobby. "No, I refuse to believe that Harold is responsible for any of this. However, none of this matters right now. You are his best friend. If you have an idea where he might hide, you will bring me to him right now!"

And for the first time since Harold had told him about Grace, Nathan could see why his best friend would risk everything for this woman. She was so soft and gentle and kind but underneath it all she had a core of steel. If anybody could drag Harold out of this, it was her. So Nathan fought his way to his feet and limped towards the door. "Allow me," he opened it and guided her to the taxi that was waiting at the curb.

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"Harold?" Grace's voice was soft, barely inaudible in the wide, dark library.

The invalid closed his eyes, swallowing the pain. He hadn't read the whole package insert but apparently, this new pain−pill was causing hallucinations.

Nathan's words were barely louder, but they prompted Harold to turn his head. "Come on, Harold, turn around."

Slowly, reluctantly, Harold rotated his wheelchair. He choked when taking in the picture of the two people most precious to him. Grace looked pale and drawn, Nathan, like death warmed over but very much alive. Unable to draw a deep enough breath, he rasped, "Am I dreaming?"

He knew that he had injured his neck, his head was killing him and the capsules he had swallowed did little to ease his agony. But seeing Grace and Nathan, here, in the library, was a too much. Then Grace came over and kneeled before his chair. Tenderly she reached for his trembling fingers and kissed his palm. Emotions seemed to suffocate her when she forced out sobbing, "I thought you were dead."

That sob tore the last of Harold's composure. Tears started to stream down his cheeks when he pulled her fingers to his mouth, covering her hands with kisses. "I'm sorry." He wept. "I'm so sorry, Grace. I never wanted to pull you into any of this." Looking up, his eyes met those of his best friend, who seemed equally distressed. "And you neither, Nathan. I've been a horrible friend. Please, forgive me."

"Oh, Harold …" Nathan sighed, limping over, putting a warm hand on Harold’s shoulder. "We've been in this together from the start."

Slowly straightening, now that Harold's death−grip on her hand had eased a little, Grace demanded to know. "What is _this_? Nathan suspects that it might be related to the bombing. After everything that has happened, I think I deserve an explanation."

The men traded a helpless glance and Nathan shrugged. He pulled up a chair for Grace and one for himself, sinking down, facing the woman his best friend has fallen for. Apparently, he and Harold weren't the only ones affected by the machine any longer. Grace had a right to know, so he started slowly, "You remember 9-11?"

"Who doesn't? It was horrible. We all felt so helpless."

"Yea, well," Harold admitted, straining himself to straighten in his wheel−chair. "I've never dealt particularly well with feeling helpless. So Nathan and I started to develop the idea of a system. A machine that could give us a warning. A guardian angel, if you will, that could tell the government about potential threats _before_ the next attack was going to happen. Giving them a chance to intervene."

Puzzled, Grace looked at them. "But no computer could ever do that. People can’t be predicted, they are complicated and irrational."

Nathan chuckled softly, "More complicated than computers, that's for sure. But you see, Grace, you are being watched. All of us are, every hour of every day. Through surveillance systems, traffic cameras, our own mobiles and laptops. All we needed was for someone … something, to make sense of the information."

"So I built it." Harold admitted quietly as if he was ashamed of his greatest achievement.

"You built it," Grace repeated, "A secret system that spies on us to … what?"

"To keep our country safe."

Looking at them, she slowly pulled back and crossed her legs, folding her hands into her lap. Calmly she demanded, "Explain."

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

It was like a confession, liberating in a way neither Harold nor Nathan had known they had desperately needed. They laid all their reasons before Grace's feet and awaited her verdict. Either man picked up the story when one the other was too exhausted to continue. They held nothing back, every failure, every success was dragged into the light. How Harold had gone through forty−two versions of his machine, each one trying to kill him to escape his supervision. His final triumph when he had realized that he could start teaching the 43rd version the importance of human life. About Nathan's constant struggle to find the best 'buyers' for their Machine, a government agency they had thought they could trust. The two lists, relevant to national security and non−relevant because one person didn't make a difference in the great scheme of things.

They talked well into the afternoon and were visibly exhausted once they were finished. Grace looked at them, taking in the physical, as well as the emotional wounds those two men had suffered because they had tried to make the world a better place. Softly she recalled, "Everybody is relevant to someone."

Dejectedly both Harold and Nathan nodded. "The numbers will never stop coming because people are petty, cruel and vindictive."

"Yes," Grace, the only woman who had turned out to be anything but, rose from her seat, reaching for Harold's wheelchair. "But you did your best. I understand that you only get the chance to look at the irrelevant numbers until midnight, but neither of you can help anybody in the state you are in. You, gentleman, are returning to the hospital, where you will remain until your doctors discharge you."

Weakly Harold protested, "But what if a number comes in?"

Gently Grace reached for his hand. "Harold, if you and Nathan plan to save the world one person at a time, you _have to_ start with yourselves, because nobody else knows about the numbers." When her fiancé didn't reply, she wanted to know, "Can we go to now?"

Helplessly, Nathan and Harold replied in unison, "Yes, mam."

 

 

### Root

"Who is she?" Nathan wanted to know, when he entered the library one rainy Monday afternoon.

Heaving himself into his wheelchair, after having finished his exercises, Harold called up the details of their latest number. "Her name is Samantha Groves. To be honest, I have trouble determining her location. She seems quite evasive."

"A female you, then?"

Harold shot his friend his best glare, but Nathan had long since become immune to the look, so he didn't bother longer than a moment. Instead he called upon traffic cameras and the security footage of the building the current Alias of Samantha Groves seemed to occupy. "Despite her elusiveness, we still have to find her. The machine would not have give us her number were she not in danger."

Taking the meagre file his friend had composed; Nathan sank down on the couch. After studying the data, he got up again and put on his jacket. Still slightly unstable on his feet, for now Nathan was the only one who could do the legwork. A man in a wheelchair was too conspicuous. "I'll check out her apartment. Call if you discover anything else."

Making his way through New York, he entered the building and broke into a non−descriptive flat. Though they tried not to break too many laws when rescuing their numbers, Nathan took a little pride in how good he had become at breaking and entering. After an hour, none the wiser, he made his way over to her workplace. During his slow walk through Central Park, he asked, "Have you discovered anything new on the bombing, Harold?" They had been released from the hospital only two weeks prior. Thus, his friend hadn’t had a chance to investigate the ferry bombing until now.

"Gentleman, if I may?"

A voice at Nathan's back had him whip around, something that didn't improve his stance. Quick−witted, the young woman reached out to steady him. "Miss Groves?" Surprised he looked from their number to the USB−drive she was offering.

"Root please, Mister Ingram."

"Nathan!" Harold's voice transmitted apprehension, even over the earpiece. "Leave the park through the southern exit. There are gentleman making their way towards you and Miss Groves. They don't look amicable."

"We should go."

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

A chase through town and a rather unpleasant shootout later, Nathan had Root settled into a dingy motel, before returning to the library. Wordlessly he handed over the USB−stick. Harold got the chance to admire the encryption, working on breaking it, when a calm voice advised, "I forgot to mention that you might want to disconnect your computer from the internet when breaking the cypher."

"Miss Groves?"

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

The situation only heated up after this encounter. Stealing the data in question, had put Root on the radar of more than one criminal organization. Harold and Nathan tapped into their substantial resources and at the end of the week had a clean alias ready. Still, Samantha Groves refused to leave New York, instead she insisted that 'The Machine' wanted her to work with them. Though both men had insisted repeatedly that they had no clue what Root was talking about, in the end they had to admit defeat since, no matter where they put her (even on a plane to Hawaii), the hacker was back at the library within a day.

After three days of useless attempts to get her to safety, Nathan finally convinced Harold about her qualities as an asset. At least Sam Groves knew her way around a gun. Harold reminded her repeatedly that taking other people's lives was not what they did, and after finally promising to play nice, she was given her own work−space at the library.

Over the next few days, Root and Harold managed to decipher the data she had stolen and discovered the reason behind the ferry bombing: to get rid of Nathan Ingram, the only man outside of the government, who knew about the machine. As CEO of IFT he had been too much of a public figure to assassinate. Yet as a security risk, he had been considered too dangerous for the government's comfort. Naturally, they had tried to eliminate him. Paling Harold and Nathan took in all the details, the elaborate plans that would erase all relationship between the CIA and the terrorist cell responsible for the bombing. The number of lives lost as collateral damage, had been of no concern.

Both men were equally shocked and stupefied by that revelation. They had worked so hard to make the world a better place, yet had made a grave mistake on the way. Sharking a shocked glance Harold choked out, "We gave the machine to these people. What have we done?"

"That gentleman," Root piped up from the sofa, where she had lounged all afternoon, "is where I come in."

 

 

### Indigo Five Alpha

"Michael Cole was killed yesterday!" Nathan sighed dejectedly. "Why is the Machine giving us his number, when it's already too late?"

Looking over his shoulder, Root assured him. "She wouldn't do that, Nate. There is a reason we received Cole's number. We just have to find it."

Limping into the library, Harold studied the picture of the deceased Michael Cole and sank down on the couch. Physical Therapy still got the better of him, no matter how many hours he was working out each day. The metal on his spine and neck made every movement nearly unbearably painful, so he was grateful when Root offered one of the 'herbal soothers'. Last month she saved a herbalist in China Town and after discussing her 'friends' predicament, he had offered a bag of herbs to ease the pain naturally. Nobody wanted to look too closely at what kind of herbs had been offered, Harold just knew that they worked and didn't make him dizzy. "Thank you, Miss Groves."

"He worked with a shifter!" Nathan burst out, making Harold nearly spill his tea. Climbing to his feet, Nathan offered the new picture. "Designation: Indigo Five Alpha. She's a Persian cat. Very combative. Her kill count is …"

"Impressive," Root purred, looking over his shoulder. "How do we find her?"

"Who killed her anchor?" Harold asked, studying the picture of the angry looking woman, drawing the only sensible conclusion. "And why did we get the number of Mr. Cole and not Miss Shaw's?"

Pulling up a keyboard, Root claimed a place beside Nathan. "Shifters, who are owned by the government, don't get social security numbers, only designations."

Scandalized, Harold turned around, "Shifters are not properties!"

Looking at his best friend, who occasionally still saw the world as he wanted it and not as it was, Nathan contradicted him softly, "They are, Harold. Most agencies try to condition shifters for their own purpose. They are owned from the moment they enter the service. If they defect from other countries, their identities are erased and, when paired with handlers, their sole purpose is to serve the U. S. of A.."

"That's atrocious!"

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

The three of them searching the world-wide net; and some systems not so worldwide; were truly a force to be reckoned with. Though Root had no trouble doing their legwork to safe the numbers, sometimes with a well-placed bullet, the three of them could discover a lot in the sanctuary of the library. They had made it their safety measure to only work with the best intel possible. They traced the ISA operative to a social gathering where they feared she would kill the head of her intelligence organization. To cover all their bases, they asked Lionel Fusco, a dirty cop Root had saved only a few weeks prior, to assist them.

It turned out that Sameen Shaw − despite her anger against those who had killed her anchor − still tried to safe a program she whole heartedly believed in: The Machine. That she intended to walk out on her former employers afterwards, worked about as well as expected.

It is said that, in animal form, shapeshifters have instincts superior to humans. Instincts that made them good agents because they simply _knew_ whom to trust and who to avoid. So, when Lionel opened his arm for the Persian cat, one gun still trained on her potential attackers, Shaw jumped into them readily and allowed Root to cover her exit. That she spat fire and brimstone at them, once she had shifted back, indicated understandable trust issues. Once the former operative had left the building, with Root's clothes and one of her guns and Lionel's wallet, the cop grumbled angrily. Harold however, had his credit cards blocked within a few minutes and a new wallet, complete with pictures of his son Lee and an extra one hundred dollars, ready within the hour.

For the next few weeks, Shaw followed Root at a distance, investigating her. Once Root got into a fire−fight while helping a number, the shifter appeared miraculously at her side, killing her attackers. What followed was a tedious lecture from Harold how they avoided killing people just because they were misguided. Root didn't see her for ten days after that.

A week into the New Year, Lionel and Lee came home after a baseball game − Finch's treat for the detective's help with yet another number − and found a dirty and half−starved Persian cat bleeding on their sofa. Before Lionel could warn his son, Lee had already approached her and gently picked her up. Contrary to expectations, Shaw started to purr when the boy scratched between her ears. Together the Fuscos cleaned her with soft towels and fed her warm broth. Fortunately, her injury was not as severe as they had feared. Mostly her paws were cut open, as if she had walked over broken glass.

Shaw stayed with them for three days, not once shifting back.

The next day, Sameen trailed Root to the Library and claimed the back of the sofa, where the woman was usually curled up for reading. "Alright, I'm in, what do you want me to do?"

⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺⸺

It turned out that Root and Sameen were a truly fearsome team. After Shaw had accepted that kneecapping people was an acceptable alternative to killing them, she was a substantial asset. Her abilities as a shifter worked to their advantage as well, helping Nathan and Harold to secure information they simply couldn't assess otherwise. After a while she moved into Root's place while human, and claimed Lionel and Lee's couch when cat. She even allowed Lionel to brush out her fur, when they both lounged in front of the TV in the evening. Nobody ever commented on that inclination, but Sameen Shaw clearly thrived after becoming a part of their team. Her animal form grew more impressive and she was stronger and faster than anybody could expect from a shifter her size.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens to a shape-shifter the CIA doesn't want any longer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words regarding the first chapter. Here is the second, though I still don't have a beta, so please point out any mistakes you notice, so I can correct them. Thank you 'kiranovember' for pointing out the wrong name for Lionel's son. I corrected it immediately :).

### New Mexico − A Landfill

"Harold, I really don't see how this could work." Nathan wandered the vast waste landfill right outside of Albuquerque. He and Harold considered buying land for a new branch of IFT, and despite the initial offer, Nathan doubted that this would work to their advantage. "I'm standing is a huge waste dump. We might have to clean the earth before even consider building here!"

While Harold considered the reliability of having the soil tested by a local company, Nathan heard a soft whining. Looking around, he told his friend, "I'll let you go, now. I'll call you in the evening, Harold," before terminating their connection. Though a nervously babbling guard, tried to keep Nathan from wandering, he ignored the man, investigating.

"Mr. Ingram, Sir, please, let's get back to the city. The on−site manager (read: guard) says it's most likely a racoon. He will make sure all pests are purged from the premises, in case you are interested in buying." His interpreter, seemed severely distressed, when Nathan ignored him.

Could be, because the 'site manager' had just revealed, that people in dark suits had offered him cash to dispose of an injured dog, only yesterday. Nathan's Spanish might be not up for business negotiations, but he still had gotten the gist of a simple conversation. Slowly making his way through the rubbish, careful not to slip since the ground was littered with shards, he discovered a black dog cowering between two barrels of unidentified waste. Though the beast growled at Nathan weakly, there was no menace in his eyes, only fear and desperation. For a few moments, the man didn't move, then he slowly held out his hand. The dog sniffed briefly, before letting his head droop in resignation.

"Get me a blanket," Nathan ordered, not taking his eyes off the animal. When his interpreter came around, with the guard in tow, the dog growled weakly and tried to retreat further between the barrels. But Nathan didn't let that deter him. Quietly he promised, "If you manage to keep yourself in check and not bite me, I promise I will get you to safety." Maybe he was delusional to believe a dog to understand him, but he counted his blessings when the animal didn't attack, but seemed to consider his offer.

For a minute, nobody dared to breathe before the black dog slumped against the ground, baring his throat. He only struggled weakly when Nathan wrapped him into the blanket, carrying him to the car. Within half an hour, they were back at his hotel where he superficially rinsed the stately sized hound down. The water came away brown and red, but no immediate wounds were to be found. So, he set the animal up with a few burger patties and a bowl of water, before discussing his flight back to New York with his secretary.

 

 

### New York − Grace and Harold's town−house

"Someday, Finch, you'll have to ditch your good Samaritan act and see the world for what it is!" Sameen spat out, pacing the length of the living−room. Used to these kinds of tantrums, Root snuggled into the corner of Harold and Grace’s comfortable sofa. She and Harold watched the pacing shifter, refusing themselves a smile at the reoccurring spectacle.

Primly Harold sat in his chair and hand a cup of tea to Root before pouring one for himself. He knew better than to offer anything to Sameen. She would drink what she pleased, probably the last of the milk, when she felt like it. Relaxing into the cushions, he replied, "While I am very aware of how the world operates, Miss Shaw, I refuse for us to become the type of people who shoot first and ask questions later."

"You're not the one getting shot at in the field!" She argued, gesturing at her shoulder. Her formerly injured shoulder, Harold had to acknowledge. But once she had gone through the shift into animal and back again, her body had healed the minor graze she had suffered when chasing their latest perpetrator.

"Sameen, please, sit down. I know it's inconvenient for you, sweetie, but Harry is right. We are the good guys. We can't run around shooting people."

Curling up on the couch beside her, Shaw protested, "You love shooting people."

"I do," Root admitted freely, "especially people who are too stupid for their own good. But our lazy duo frowns upon such tactics and if merely crippling them is acceptable, I have come to terms with that. This way they suffer for a lifetime, while being unable to work in their old job ever again. I consider that poetic justice."

"First, Miss Groves, Nathan and I are hardly lazy, we work full−time−jobs each." Harold sighed weakly. "And second, finding joy in crippling people is hardly the incentive we should thrive for."

Shaking her head, Root admonished her 'boss'. "Harry, you know as well as I do that most of our numbers come with attachments that do shoot first and asks questions later, perpetrators notwithstanding. We can't afford to be squeamish."

"May I remind you that our goal is to protect people?"

Sameen sneered, but Root put a calming hand on her, gently caressing her thigh. Morosely she reminded him, "You know the approach the CIA and the ISA have taken with your Machine. They understand that sometimes there is collateral damage."

Hands shaking only miniscule, Harold put his teacup back on the tray. "I assure you, Miss Groves, I have forgotten nothing, but I always hoped to be able to do more than balance the body count."

Angling for a cup and the last of the milk, Shaw watched the two. There was something going on here, a secret she was not privy to know. Still, after everything these people had given her, a new cover, a home and most of all their trust, she decided to let this one go. (For now.) Or at least to wait for a chance to interrogate Root in private. "So …," she drew out, "back to the numbers. If you don't let me shoot the ones who are too stupid to listen to reason, am I at least allowed to bite them?"

Doing his best to hide a soft smile behind his teacup, Harold took a calming sip before relenting, "I assume I could live with that, Miss Shaw. But only if it doesn't become a regular occurrence."

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Nathen barged through the door, half an hour later, instructing two couriers to set down a steel dog carrier in the middle of the living−room. Speechless the trio watched him open the cage, monitoring the black lightning bolt that shoot through the room and into the darkest corner.

Shaw bristled while Harold inquired, "Welcome home, Nathan, care to tell me why you feel the need to set a dog loose in my apartment?"

Meeting his best friend half way, hugging him, before sitting down, snatching a cup, helping himself to some tea, Nathan beamed, "I brought him for you. I thought he would make a nice addition to our team. I always told you that between the Machine, IFT and Union Heritage you need a personal guard. Now you have one."

"You can't be serious," Herold replied horrified, "You will take him with you this instance! Neither do I want a dog, nor do I have the time to care for one!"

The same moment the main door closed with a click, indicating that the couriers had just left with the carrier.

Relaxing into his own chair, Nathan grinned, "Oh, too bad. Now the cage is gone and I don't have a lash. It seems that you must keep him until you can acquire one."

"Nathan!"

But before Harold could give Nathan the tongue lashing his friend undoubtedly deserved, the main door opened again and a pleasant, female voice announced, "Harold, I'm home."

Instantly Harold's face lit up. When Grace entered, he rose and kissed her cheek before helping her out of her jacket. Animatedly she watched their guests. "Root, Sameen, Nathan, it’s so nice to see you all. Is there some kind of crisis? Should I leave again?"

"On the contrary, Grace," Root replied, hugging the woman. "We had just changed topics before you came in."

After Harold and Nathan's release from the hospital, and their subsequent returning to the numbers, Harold and Grace had agreed, that she would learn as little as possible, about their 'extracurricular activities'. Oblivion might not be a blessing in this case, but Grace preferred plausible deniability when someone inquired about them. Still, Harold was aware, that he could not keep his fiancé completely safe, tough he and Nathan did everything in their power to shield her. Since Root and Shaw had taken a liking to her as well, all tried their best to hide the ugly truth that sometimes came with working the numbers.

After retrieving more tea, Harold caught a glimpse of Sameen and Grace's awkward hug, where the shifter rubbed her face over Grace's shoulder. Though Sameen would never admit it, she cared a lot about Grace Hendricks. Her actions, both as a human and as a cat spoke for themselves. Nathan was the only one who went all the way hugging Grace, kissing her cheek. Though they had only met a few months prior, Grace and Nathan had already become good friends, bonding over Harold's lack of self-preservation, nagging him over eating and sleeping when he was on a coding−spree.

"So, Grace," Root inquired with a pleasant smile, "How was work?"

Always the artist, and right now a part−time curator for the Guggenheim Museum, Grace was eager to share her latest acquisitions. Since she was both an expert in painting as well as a pleasant person, the museum had gained more than a few exceptional pieces since she started working for them. And, as always, it was a joy to listen to her describe her workday. "I was promised a new Devalle today and with a little effort I might be able to convince a museum in Milano to lend us a few more of his pictures. I plan to do an exhibition of modern European painters. People should know that not only paintings from people long dead can be impressive."

With a tender smile, Harold carried over a new pot of tea and an extra cup for Grace, lovingly kissing her forehead when serving.

Despite her usual interest in coding and weapons, Root had learned a great deal about art while spending time with Grace. The two of them enjoyed strolling the streets of New York, or discovering new cafés around the city, on their days off.

So, no matter how little Harold enjoyed interrupting their conversation, there still was an inconvenient matter to settle. "Nathan, I expect you to return this canine to its original owner instantly!"

A low whine interrupted Nathan's explanation of where he had found the dog, and the state the animal had been in.

 

### A Canine Shape−Shifter

After Kara had taken a shot at him, Reese had simply stopped fighting. Doubting the work he was doing and then having his own anchor turn against him had crushed the last of his resolve. He had let Kara's henchmen snatch him up and after some excruciating prodding and testing he was simply dumped at a landfill, after three days without food or water. The man who had approached him there had smelled nice and talked gently. He had growled at the guard, who had taken Kara’s money to dispose of him, but afterwards had been too exhausted to keep his eyes open. He considered death to be a blessing.

The blond man had brought him to a hotel room. Had put him down in the shower and albeit his weakness, John had managed to drink some water. He didn't know what to do without an anchor. A shifter needed one to stay human, to stay useful. Right now, he was neither. However, the smell of the hamburgers had been too enticing for him to reject them. He had enjoyed some more water and had pushed away all thoughts of the bleak future that awaited him as someone’s pet.

Only a day ago, he had thought himself resigned to whatever would be happening to him. But today instinct had taken over. Currently, he was cowering in the corner of an apartment filled with humans, still weak, but in the defence once again. His mind could barely follow one thought to the end and in a fight, he had no hope of winning. Especially not against, five opponents. He was so tired, but in here, surrounded by opponents, he could not allow himself any rest. Therefore, he hid between a dresser and a wall, trying to keep an eye on everybody. Fortunately, the people stayed on the couch and well within his line of sight.

It took him some time to differentiate these people. The man, Nathan Ingram, CEO of IFT, smelled compassionate and slightly mischievous. To him the quarrel with his friend ‘Harold’ – John was supposed to be a gift for from what he gathered – was quite entertaining. Apparently, people were still enjoying themselves at his expense. Kara had done so, so it was nothing new. The woman on the couch with the dark−haired shifter by her side, seemed cool and detached. She kept petting her shifter, and though the smaller woman was glaring at him, she allowed the touch. Undoubtedly the woman was her anchor. Otherwise she would have bitten off her hand by now. John wondered what the taller woman had done to force the bond.

He remembered all too well the night he had been introduced to Kara. She had scrutinized him, named him and then taken him to compel the connection between them. John's wishes had never been a concern to her. Hence, he could understand the angry demeanour of the other shifter.

What puzzled him, however, was the obvious concern of the smallest man of the group; Harold. Though he protested verbosely, John could almost taste his apprehension in the air. He was convinced, the man was worried, yet not afraid of him. His words were soft caresses for John's over−stimulated ears, so he couldn't swallow back the whine when this ‘Harold’ told his friend that he didn't want him. As a former asset for the government, John was aware that nobody would ever want him again. Not if he couldn't be useful and fulfilled their expectations. Still, hearing it spelled out hurt, especially after everything he had been through.

Things turned upside down when the latest arrival of the group turned around. The kind−smelling, red−head looked over the back of her armchair and locked eyes with him. Though he knew how he looked, shaggy and too thin and probably still dirty, he wanted to preen under her attention. When she rose to approach him, 'Harold' held her back, "Grace, please, we don't know if he is dangerous. He could hurt you."

That was decidedly not the impression he wanted to give. No matter how hopeless his situation, John was determined to never hurt an innocent, no matter what the person did to him. So, he crouched down on his belly, making himself as small as possible. This woman was … different. He didn't want her to be afraid. He could prove that he was no danger. They might not be nice people, if one of them was willing to snatch up a shifter against his will, and two smelling heavily of gun−oil residue. But the idea of being thrown out again, was more than John could take. He could play nice, at least until he returned to his old strength and could make it on his own.

In a week or two he would leave, pocket a few funds, and run away, try to create a new life for himself. Though the thought held little appeal, it was better than to return to the CIA. He doubted that Kara had decided on her own that he was to be disposed of. There was no way for him to get back to the agency. Other intelligence organization usually took their clues from the Central Intelligence Agency, so if he were a persona non-grata with them, he had little chance anywhere else. Maybe …

His train of thought was interrupted when Grace crouched down an armlength away from him. Gingerly she held out her hand, offering a piece of ham. Harold was hovering at her back, apparently ready to pull her away, should John attack. But nothing could be further from his mind. He wanted these people to like him – just for a short while – to let him stay and get better. So, he pressed his head to the ground and whined softly while robbing forward on his belly, cautiously taking the treat out of her fingers.

 

 

He felt relieved when the woman beamed up. "See, he's a dear, Harold. You don't have to worry."

Harold was touching her shoulder tenderly, and though his words were soft, the force behind them nearly overwhelmed John. He had had two long–term anchors in his life: Jessica, who had been soft−spoken and lenient, and Kara, who had been sadistic and hard, ready to go any length to get the job done. Yet, none of the two had had the same authority as Harold when he told both him and Grace, "I won't allow you to get hurt." It wasn’t even a warning or a promise, it was a simple fact that seeped straight into John’s hinder brain, directing his actions more effectively than any treat or punishment he had ever received in his life.

Message received, John retreated into his corner. Contrary to his expectations however, Grace straightened and softly kissed her partner's cheek. "He won't hurt me, Harold. I'll just give him a little scrub down and then we'll take care of dinner, alright?"

Her open, inviting palm prompted John to come forward and touch her hand with the tip of his nose. He didn't let Harold out of his sight, because he didn't believe for one second that this woman would do anything he wouldn't approve off. The man gazed down at him, entirely unmoving, instinctively John mirrored the motion or lack thereof, subconsciously anxious to set Harold off. He felt as if this man could strip away his secrets, see all the blood he had spilled. Consequently, he lowered his eyes and bared his neck. He had no place here, but maybe if he showed himself compliant he would be allowed to stay.

"Alright," Harold finally relented, "I'll fetch you the products from the guest−bathroom."

"You won't give my towels to that mutt!" the other shifter spat out, jumping over the back of the couch, following Harold down the corridor.

John dutifully heeled for Grace, joining her to a bathroom on the first floor. There was a generous walk−in shower that could easily hold two people. Eyeing the setup Grace decided. "Why don't you get in while I change."

It was an order, but Grace was much less forceful than Harold. Still, John wanted to make a good impression, so he climbed over the edge, obediently lying down in the middle of the dark stone–floor. She returned a moment later with shorts and a tank−top, checking the water−temperature before wetting John thoroughly. The warm water felt heavenly on his matted fur and when Harold offered a bottle of shampoo, Grace immediately dumped a healthy helping onto his back.

Though the product made him sneeze when he inhaled it, he could help but try to snatch the soap suds that gathered before the shower took them away. When he tried to lick one off his tail, he could hear Grace laugh. Wanting to watch her delight he slipped over the floor and lost his footing, clashing to the ground. Within a heartbeat, Harold was at the door. "Is everything alright?"

Still snickering, Grace shared, "He was chasing the bubbles and lost his footing, everything is fine, Harold. Stop worrying. He won't maim me in the bathroom."

"He won't maim you at all!" Harold replied indignant, tough it seemed that not even he could hold back a grin when seeing John, covered in suds, splayed out in their walk–in shower. "I'm ordered rosemary chicken, with mash potatoes. One extra for him. It appears that he could do with some meat on his bones."

He was staying. These people were even feeding him. John couldn't help but sag. His future just had gotten a little brighter, since it was still open to discussion if they would keep him. He gasped surprised when the water once again hit him. Grace removed the soap gently, allowing him to leave the shower and spread out on a towel she had put on the floor.

His fur was saturated with water and John wanted nothing more than a good shake. But Grace's stern, "Don't even think about it," made him relented and allow her to pat him dry. The blow−dryer, he decided after a moment, was really nice, though it made his hair stand on end. She brushed him down to tame his tufted fur, and when he followed her out of the bathroom, he felt better than he had in a very long time. A floor to ceiling mirror at the end made him hesitate. Though John had long since given up on vanity, Kara had been vain enough for the two of them, always dressing him up, showing him off, he was glad that he finally looked his best. A clean and pretty hound held more appeal than a shaggy one.

"Don't you look nice," Grace commented, running her fingers through his fur, on her way to the living−room. She had once again redressed, now wearing comfortable slacks and a soft shirt with a cardigan covering it. As before he fell in step beside her, joining her in the kitchen.

Harold's sharp, disapproving 'tzz', had John sit on his haunches instantly, not moving past the border of the kitchen. There was a mouth−watering smell of fresh chicken with potatoes and a salat. His stomach was clenching painfully, but he didn't dare to invade a room he was not wanted in. Harold had promised to feed him, if he was good, maybe he would receive his food once dinner was over.

Helping Harold to set the table, opening a bottle of wine, Grace placed the dishes, while Harold carried over two bowls. One he sat on the table, one he put on the floor. The mouth−watering scent of de−boned chicken rose into John's nose and his quiet whine seem to prompt the man to encourage him, "Come on, it's yours. Eat your fill."

Instantly John approached the bowl and though his instincts demanded to wolf the meal down, he forced himself to take it slow. After dinner, Grace and Harold retreated to the living−room, sharing the bottle of wine, while entertaining themselves with a book each, occasionally sharing enticing passages. John longed to join them. He couldn't even remember when he had been in such peaceful surroundings, the last time. Between Harold and Grace there were no harsh words or underlying tension. They were completely at ease with each other and John couldn't help but wish feverishly that he would be allowed to stay.

It might even be better to stay animal with these people, then to be human in a world where nobody wanted him.

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The next morning started as pleasant as the night before had ended. Grace and Harold had an easy routine, where they shared breakfast preparations as easily as the meal. Though John didn't expect any morsels after the filling meal he had received the evening before, he was surprised to find a bowl of kibble on the floor. A new, shiny dog−bowl stood next to the kitchen counter, as well as a bowl of water. Discussing their plans for the day, Grace shared that workplace didn't allow dogs, so Harold relented to take him along.

John was indeed curious how this inconspicuous man, who hid so much strength and determination behind his unobtrusive demeanour, spent his day. So, he waited beside the door as soon as the humans had retreated to their bedroom to dress for the day. He allowed Harold to fasten a dog−collar around his neck and attach a lash. The man was smart, so undoubtedly was aware that he had not the slightest chance to hold back a hound of John's breed. Nevertheless, he reminded himself to be on his best behaviour. John took special care not to stretch the lash to its limits and care for his business unobtrusively. The human seemed rather pained by the whole endeavour, so he tried to be as swift as possible and return to his side immediately.

After a thirty-minute walk, Harold entered a giant office−building, riding the elevator up to the fifth floor. They emerged on a work−floor that was filled with cubicles. Harold claimed one at the side. The cubicle was astounding in its mediocrity. Nothing even remotely personal resided there and while it smelled faintly of Harold, he surely did not spend a lot of time there. From his place behind Harold's chair he spotted, beside a name plate, a rubrics cube, a potted plant and the inevitable perpetuum mobile that one would expect on such a place. Bored, John curled up beneath the desk and closed his eyes.

After a while another man came around, making John realize that Harold was missing. After but a moment, the man limped around the corner with a cup of coffee and a bowl of water. "Dave, can I do something for you?"

Irritated, John noticed that Harold's whole demeanour had changed. He stood there hunched over, lowering his eyes submissively.

"Harold, what do you think are you doing, bringing a wolf to work with you?"

"This is a Norwegian Elkhound." Dave was contradicted in a soft tone. "And I spoke to Mister Greenwald this morning. He said it was alright if the dog was not keeping anybody from doing his job or destroying company property."

Bristling, the man crowded Harold into his workspace. "He's not supposed to keep you from working either," he sneered, looking at the bowl. "You're still behind on the new database. We need it by Wednesday! You better hurry up or _I_ will speak to Mister Greenwald about your performance."

John didn't like this, not at all. Harold was a good man. This jerk had no right to talk down at him like that. He didn't even notice the menacing growl that had escaped him, until Harold's low, "Quiet!" shut him up instantly. Despite his soft tone, this man's words were utterly compelling. It was as if Harold did not even fathom the idea of being disobeyed. No matter his calm demeanour, his orders reached John's subconscious straight away and his belly hit the floor. It was all tactic, he told himself. To be allowed to stay, he needed to make Harold believe that he was obedient and docile. That Harold commanded him easier than even Kara had, wasn't a something John wanted to look at too closely.

Dave, however, seemed to be sufficiently cowered by John's display of aggression because he retreated hastily. Unsure if Harold was angry with him, John remained hunched.

With a sigh, Harold reclaimed his seat. "Don't look at me like that. I'm well aware that Dave is unpleasant. But he doesn't deserve to be growled at, just for snapping at me."

Unsure if this was a reprimand, John lapped up some of the water, and retreated into the furthest corner of the cubicle. He wanted to think about the exchange to discover if he had done something wrong, but couldn’t. As a hound, he couldn’t clear his head enough to follow a logic train of thought for an extended amount of time.

He knew that he had stayed in his canine form longer than ever before, and that every day wore down his humanity. At the landfill, he had tried to shift back, but an excruciating pain had deterred him from that idea. He didn't know what was wrong with him, maybe he had lost that part of himself, because of the experiments Kara’s men had performed before dumping him. On the other side, he had never met anybody with the quiet strength and the gentle kindness of Harold and Grace. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to lose himself to his animal with them.

A mouth-watering smell made him lift his head. A chewing bone was held out to him under the table. He cautiously patted closer and Harold shared softly, "Allison, from three cubicles down, sometimes brings her German Shepard to work. She saw you on our way in and offered the treat."

When John took it gingerly, Harold trailed his fingers through his soft fur, mumbling quietly, "Good boy," before concentrating on work again.

John sagged bonelessly to the floor. How long had it been that anybody had called him 'good'? He liked this, so much. Right then he made the conscious decision to do everything in his power to endear himself to this human. He didn't need a new anchor any longer, someone who controlled him and kept him human. He could be content this way.

If only he believed himself …

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish all of you a very, merry Christmas and lots of love for you and your families.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, you are telling me that the hound, who has been living with us for nearly two weeks, is a shape−shifter; like Sameen?”  
> “Well, not exactly like Sameen. First of all, he’s most definitely canine. Second, Miss Shaw was property of the IAS. We don’t know where this shifter came from. He could be a civilian. We simply don’t know.”  
> Taking in the tense posture of her fiancé, Grace pondered, “You are worried because of everything he has learned already.”  
> Rubbing his hands, Harold nodded. “I’m a very private person for a reason.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still looking for a betareader. Just saying ;).

### Chipped

Eventually it became unavoidable for Harold to take the dog to the library. Nathan was already there, working a new number with Root. "It seems that the two of you are friends already," he smirked, looking at the canine who seemed fused to his best friend's side.

"Just because I take him with me, instead of letting him stay at home all day," Harold snapped, "certainly doesn't mean that I agree with your decision to force him on me."

When the dog beside him whined quietly, he refused to feel guilty about it. Instead he unclipped the lash and ushered him on. Despite Harold's expectations, the animal seemed content to curl up at his feet, once he started working. He ignored Nathan's, "He certainly seems to like you."

A wet nose on his hand made Harold blink and look around. Nathan was still working with Root and Shaw, but Harold − always improving their security systems − seemed to have zoned out again. From the light that fell through the dusty windows, it appeared to be early evening. Grace had to be on her way home by now, and while his ever-understanding fiancé had made a habit of not commenting on his late hours, he addressed his best friend tiredly, "Do you have everything under control, Nathan?"

Muting his connection, his best friend confirmed, "For now, yes, but I have a flight to Denver tomorrow morning. I'll have Root and Miss Shaw contact you, should the number still be in danger. Go home, Harold, you look tired."

He was tired. Working numbers, on top of his duties for his various aliases, had exhausted Harold and it took its tow on Nathan as well. While Harold could hide behind the curtains, Nathan stood in full view of the press and the social media. He had to give the impression of a strong leader, otherwise IFT would suffer. Something neither of the two was willing to risk. Not after everything they had done to get their company started. So, Harold confirmed that he would return in the morning and buttoned up his coat.

Once he was at the door, he felt like something was missing. Turning around he saw the dog still lying under his desk, looking at him with big, sad eyes. True, Harold had bickered about how he didn't want a pet, but he hadn't imagined the animal to understand him. Yet somehow it acted as if it did, his crestfallen look being anything to go by. With a sigh, Harold prompted, "Come on then."

The dog bounding over happily made him supress a smile. As before the animal walked so close it nearly touched Harold's legs at every step. At the same time, the hound seemed careful not to topple him. It was drizzling, but Harold steadily passed several corners, before approaching a taxi−stand. Regrettably the bad weather coaxed out the bottom of the evolutionary pit. On an empty sidewalk, hidden between two buildings, a gang of three cornered Harold, demanding his watch and wallet.

Aware that relinquishing his valuables would cause the least trouble, Harold handed them over. He really didn't want to call for help because of petty theft. Still, he couldn't help himself but argue about the watch, since it had been a present from Grace. The thugs however, showed little compassion. One pulled out a knife and before Harold realized what was going on, the guy had slashed at his hand. Not wanting the situation to escalade further, Harold was ready to give up his watch, but before he could fumble with the wristband, fingers slick with blood already, the black hound swooped past him, attacking the petty crooks. The animal dug his teeth into the arm of the guy who had wounded him. One of the others toppled Harold over in his haste to flee.

Unfortunately, Harold lost his balance on the slick ground and hit his head. Disoriented he sank to the floor. The hound was by his side in an instant, whining loudly while lapping at the blood from the cut. For a heartbeat, the animal froze, before nosing at Harold's neck. After a moment, he tried to bodily shove the man to his feet. A miserable howl interrupted his efforts, but after a few moments, Harold got his feet back under him and reached the nearest taxi−stand.

Once they entered their home, Grace spotted the blood on the dog's muzzle and on Harold's hand and anxiously pulled her fiancé away from the canine. "Harold, oh my god, what happened?"

Ignoring the dejected animal, she herded her partner to the ground−floor bathroom, pulling out their substantial first aid kit from under the sink. Though she pretended ignorance, regarding her friend's activities, she had learned to keep their healing supplies well stocked, including butterfly bandages and threat and needle. She didn't really want to think too closely about what made such equipment necessary. Now, she was glad that she could apply the bandages to her fiancé's sluggishly bleeding hand.

While she was working, Harold did his best to recap the events of the evening. "I was mugged by three unfortunate souls. When one of them pulled a knife on me, the hound attacked him."

"So that's not your blood?"

"NO!" He hastened to assure her. "He really was perfectly well behaved through the whole endeavour. At least until one of our muggers drew blood. I doubt that he caused more than a flesh wound, though he certainly has the strength to break bones."

"Somehow I'm not sure if this is comforting or disturbing."

"He is a good dog, Grace. He was really just trying to protect me."

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There was more than one way to bond with an anchor. John had been so caught up in the moment, that he had forgotten that accepting blood was a suitable mean for human and shifter to connect. Even more effective than being dominated if the blood was taken without compulsion. While dominance could be forced, a blood–bond could not. Most human were still afraid of giving their shifters a taste for their life essence. Equally, shifters usually abhorred to drink blood. In the military, sex was used as means to an end. The few shifters he had met during his years in the service, had always been in a sexual relationship with their anchors. But now that Harold's blood was hitting his system, John felt the connection sparkle to life between them. He knew that the human was not aware of it, they never were, but he felt his whole world tilting at its axis, realigning itself around the man.

Even now the first empathic transmissions unfolded in John's mind. The shifter had expected anger and dread over the aggression he had just displayed. But instead he sensed concern. Concern for his wellbeing. Had he stayed back until now, because Grace had seemed quite agitated, the soft prompting, "Please, come here," had him bound around the corner, right into the small bathroom.

Fixing the last of the bandage on Harold's hand, wrapping it swiftly, Grace looked down at him. The reservation from before was gone, and she motioned him closer with a towel in her hand. "Come on, now. Harold said you saved him. That was very brave, good boy. But now we'll have to get you cleaned up."

Looking up at Harold, who seemed perfectly content to have him close, John sat down and allowed her to clean his muzzle. Softly she scratched the fur behind his ears, making John's eyes flutter shut. "You really are a sweetheart, aren't you?" She threw away the washcloth, stroking him with both hands. Harold seemed amused, but after a moment, his hands joined Grace's. Helplessly, John let himself sink to the floor, presenting his unprotected belly. Were he a feline, he was sure he would have done something as inappropriate as purring. Fortunately, his canine nature spared him the indignity.

After a few moments, Grace's fingers scratched a little too hard at his neck, making him pull back instinctively. She followed, though her touch grew lighter. "Harold, give me your hand."

Harold too seemed to probe the skin at the base of his skull, at first, his touch hurt as well. But since he was concentrated on the task, John held still and allowed the inspection. Anchors had done worse to him in the past, so it was effortless to suffer this minor discomfort, to ease the man's curiosity.

"There is something under his skin." Grace pondered, making him perk up.

Humming, inspecting that part of John at length, Harold agreed. "You are right. Maybe we should make an appointment to give him an x−ray."

"Do you think we'll be able to find his former owner?"

Alarmed, John looked at Harold, who shook his head. "After everything Nathan has told me, I doubt that this is something as simple as an identification chip. Also, these chips are usually planted at the side of the neck, not at the base of the pet's skull. Something is not right. Maybe we should ask Dr. Tillman. With a little persuasion from Miss Shaw, I am sure she would be willing to lend us a helping hand."

John recalled the pain he had experienced when he had tried to shift in the alley. It had indeed originated from the back of his head. Maybe he was not as broken as he had thought. Maybe there was something keeping him to shift back to human.

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The next day Harold brought him to a veterinarian, that performed every test imaginable on the implant. They made x−rays and tried to read the chip with a scanner (no output). Afterwards they slipped into a hospital. John trailed anxiously behind Harold. If they found out that he was a shifter, what would they do? Harold and Grace wouldn't want him any longer if he was human, he was sure of that. They had a good relationship and didn't need a third wheel. However, after tasting Harold's blood, John felt the bond stronger each day. Leaving would be hell.

When he was finally pushed into an MRT, he tried very hard to lay still. Something that turned out easy, because Harold was petting him and called him a good dog. Even if he knew the praise was only meant to calm an animal, John couldn't deny the effect it had on him. As long as his anchor was happy with him, he didn't want to jeopardise that. He wanted to be good and obedient and worth Harold's affection. All too fast the MRT was over and Harold clipped the lash to his collar. The doctor promised to send the results promptly.

Clearly not one to linger, Harold brought John with him to another, quite impressive building. The name was IFT, judging from the logo in the lobby. At one of the top floors, Harold entered a nice office and within three minutes a young woman was bringing tea and a bowl with water. John itched to sniff around, but didn't want to be a bother. Obedience and submission, these two qualities had been valued above all else in the service. That's why he curled up on the floor, only occasionally putting his head on Harold's knee, revelling in the affection the man granted him.

Around midday, they went for a quick walk. Back at the office, the test−results came in. The data seemed to puzzle Harold, because after only a few minutes he reached for his phone. "Miss Shaw?"

And while John perked up to discover what was going on, he could only hear Harold's half of the conversation.

"No, we don't have another number.

"No I don't want to lecture you about the use of violence in your line of work. I have complete faith that you are able, to gauge the necessary amount by yourself.

"Because my dog has a chip at the base of his skull. And while I'm familiar with computer systems, I'm not proficient in reading medical records."

He smiled, when the female voice on the phone replied curtly, "Thank you, I will do so immediately."

Then he reached down and rubbing John's neck. "Don't worry, we'll find out what's going on," before returning to work.

"Mister Finch," the secretary peaked in around three, "Mister Ingram asked me to remind you that you still have to set up the system in conference room one."

"Of course, Sandra, thank you very much."

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Puzzled, John followed at heel. Yesterday the name−tag on the cubicle had not identified the man as 'Harold Finch', he was sure of it. Though he couldn't recall the name, he recalled that it hadn't started with an 'F'. Why was this man using different alias? And why was he working in three different buildings, one of them abandoned? His home was so nice and everything of such good quality. None of this made any sense.

John wished that he could shift back; just for a couple of hours to regain his higher cognitive functions. But whenever he tried, the pain at the base of his neck flared up again. Dejected, he hunched down in a corner of the conference room, and watched Harold becoming an inconspicuous shadow behind Nathan Ingram, quietly supplying data when addressed.

 

 

### Bonded

Around nine p.m., Grace, Harold and John walked back from a nice dinner at a hole−in−the−wall steak−house. John had savoured a juicy bone, while Grace and Harold had traded bites over the table. That Grace had sneaked him a bite of the heavenly smelling meat, would remain their secret. Out of the blue a public phone next to them rang, making Harold freeze mid−step. He seemed apologetic when taking the call, and afterwards sent Grace home, with John as her guardian.

The shifter took his job very serious, because the female was lovely, and he would rather die than let any harm come to her. Still, he was curious where Harold was going. Grace smelled concerned, but tried to mask her emotions by going on and on about one picture or the other. John was only listening with half an ear. Admittedly, not even in his human form, Grace would have a connoisseur at hand. John knew how to distinguish the most important painters. But that was where his proficiency ended.

Their evening afterwards was quiet and longer than anticipated. Grace only succumbed to sleep after the clock had stroke one. John stood guard, hoping for Harold's safe return. He had a feeling that whatever the man was doing, it was not as harmless as his day−jobs implied.

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The truth was, their number had been wrapped up uncharacteristically fast, since the victim's trophy wife, had tried to poison him for the inheritance. Sameen's conclusions after seeing the dog's MRT however, were not. "I need more tests for a final diagnose. For now, the chip seems dormant but it is connected to the stem of your puppy's skull. I don't know if it is safe to remove it, as long as I don't know what it is supposed to do."

"What do you suggest, Miss Shaw?" Harold wanted to know. This was all very inconvenient. No matter how little he wanted a dog, he wasn't inclined to let the animal suffer either. Past incidents indicated that the chip was a source of pain. They just hadn't been able to identify what triggered it. The situation was unacceptable.

Root's audible smile made both Harold and Shaw turn around. "I knew she would help."

Disapproving, Harold rose and approached the monitors. "Miss Groves, you know how I feel about using the Machine for personal gain."

"It's not personal gain, Harry, if you help someone else."

Having a hard time contradicting that, Harold looked over her shoulder and studied the picture. "This model seems comparable to our chip, but it is not the same."

"What's the purpose?" Shaw wanted to know.

Hesitant, Root started, "Sameen, maybe you should …"

"Show me," the shifter demanded, inserting herself ruthlessly between Harold and Root.

"Bastards!" She spat out, pushing Root away, claiming the place in front of the monitors.

Reading over her shoulder, Harold paled after a moment and retreated to the sofa. The cup of tea Root offered after a few minutes, trembled ever so slightly, before he could take his first sip. Tonelessly he drew the only conclusion from the article they've all just read, "He's a shifter."

"It seems like it," Root confirmed, claiming a spot beside him, concern prominent on her face. Despite her usually so blasé attitude, she cared a lot about Harold and didn't want him hurt.

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The truth was, she and Harold had had a rough start. Root had always been exceptionally good with computers and when several terminals she had used, had pointed her towards Harold Finch, she had followed the leads. In secrecy, she had studied him and Nathan Ingram for four months, studying the amazing achievements that revealed itself along the way. The mere idea of an artificial god watching over all of them, had been as breath−taking as comforting. If some benevolent system was protecting mankind, something like Hannah would never, ever happen again.

Wanting … no _needing_ to learn everything about Nathan and Harold and the machine, Root had interacted with people, better to stay away from. Still, when her number came up, she couldn't regret it. Though there was still so much to learn, she offered her findings to Nathan, using the chance to trail after him when he returned to the library, leading her directly into the arms of the man who had created god.

Afterwards she and Harold had had many quarrels. About how to use the Machine. About the best way to safe people. The Machine had not always been on her side. Though Root had felt her guiding hand, sometimes she had remained suspiciously quiet. It had taken Root quite a while to understand that, while the system protected everybody, no matter if the person was relevant to national security or not, Harold had a special place it's 'heart'. The machine adored its creator. Nathan might have helped but Harold was Admin: to be protected at all cost.

He had been furious when he learned about the 'god mode' and berated Root for seemingly abusing it. He was so wrapped up in his need of secrecy, that he didn't see that sometimes they could only safe a number if they had an extra edge. Over the months they had come to the unspoken agreement that Root would not abuse the privileges the machine granted her, and Harold would try to keep his composure when she did. In the end, they both wanted to save lives.

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When Harold didn't say anything for quite some time, only sipping his rapidly cooling tea, she wanted to know, "Why are you upset? It's not as if he is any danger to you."

"How can you say that?" He contradicted her. "He was with me both at Universal Heritage Insurance and at IFT. My god he even joined me when I came here last week!"

"So what?"

"So what?" Rising from his seat, limping the length of the room agitatedly, Harold elaborated. "He knows about not less than three of my alias. He knows about the numbers! What if he just walks off and sells our secrets to the highest bidder? It would put all of this, and any of you, in jeopardy!"

"Hardly," Root replied shortly, before reaching out for him, guiding him back to the couch, when the agony from his injuries became prominent on his face. Crouching down in front of him, she recalled, "Didn't you tell me that, after you were mugged last night, he lapped at your bloody hand?"

"Yes he did," Harold confirmed. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"He's already bound to you," Shaw piped up. "He can't betray you. No matter what you do."

"Excuse me?"

"Harry," Root sighed as if Harold was a particularly dense child. "Have you ever read up on Human−Shifter−Bonds? I mean beyond what you learned from Cole and Shaw?"

Quietly the man shook his head, so she urged him up and towards his computers. "There really is nothing for you to worry about. Do some research, while Sameen and I figure out how to get rid of the chip."

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When Harold returned home that night, he found Grace sleeping on the couch, with a blanket haphazardly dragged over her. The hound was sitting in the living−room with a direct line of sight towards the doorway, and Grace. He was guarding her, Harold realized. At the same time, he had to force down his irritation of having another man in his home, especially one he knew nothing about.

Still, he couldn't help but smile when the animal bound over, tail waggling, licking at his hands. "Good boy," was an automatic praise before Harold could swallow it down. That only seemed to encourage the shifter because after walking around him once, eager to touch as much of Harold as possible, he herded him towards the refrigerator before retreating to the edge of the kitchen.

Of course, Grace had put aside some late-night snack. Closing the door, he unwrapped the sandwich. His beloved always made sure that he had at least a few bites when he had to take his medication. The dog had curled up in the corner of the room. Not on alert any longer, simply content to have his master home. 'No,' Harold scolded himself. This was not an animal and Harold was not his master or owner or whatever else the most used terminus was. This animal was a sentient being, one that – as his research had indicated − was already bound to him on an emotional level. Harold was his everything now, his life, his reason of being. How could he ever make up for that? He literally knew nothing about this person. Worst of all, he couldn't even send the man away, once he managed to shift back. It was torture for a shifter to be kept from his anchor. Something the military used willingly against disobedient shape−shifters. Sometimes the cruelness of people knew no bounds.

There were days when Harold wondered if it had been a good idea to build the Machine. In the end, only the government had the resources to keep their country safe. He could only scramble after the 'irrelevant numbers', proving day after day that people were cruel, vicious and mean. But what to think of an administration that tolerated heinous acts like using the biology of shifters against them? The more he learned about these three−lettered−organizations, the more he pondered if it wouldn't be better to shut down the machine after all. But then, terrorists didn't attack military bases. They attacked normal people, their irrelevant numbers, and though Harold and Nathan, Root and Shaw operated on a much smaller scale, in the end all they wanted was to keep the people of this country safe.

Feeling like he was trapped between a rock and a hard−place, Harold gently woke Grace and led her to bed.

 

 

### Removing the Chip

It took Sameen Shaw and Dr. Megan Tillman, a whole week to prepare for surgery. An operation room and an Intensive Care Unit were not easy to come by, even with Harold’s substantial resources. Also, there was Grace to consider. Three days before the operation, Harold shared everything they knew so far.

“So, you are telling me that the hound, who has been living with us for nearly two weeks, is a shape−shifter; like Sameen?”

“Well, not exactly like Sameen. First of all, he’s most definitely canine. Second, Miss Shaw was property of the IAS. We don’t know where this shifter came from. He could be a civilian. We simply don’t know.”

Taking in the tense posture of her fiancé, Grace pondered, “You are worried because of everything he has learned already.”

Rubbing his hands, Harold nodded. “I’m a very private person for a reason.”

“Right,” she rose from her seat, approaching the window that looked over a small park that faced their house. “You didn’t even want to involve me in any of this.”

“Grace,” Harold sighed softly, gently putting his arms around her, from behind. “You know you're the most important person in my life. But I …” Sighing he put his forehead against the back of her head. For a moment, he was at lost, Grace however turned around and kissed him gently.

“But you are afraid what would happen to me if anybody would find out about your … extracurricular activities.”

Nodding, Harold reached for her hands and kissed them reverently. “The mere thought that something could happen to you, simply because we're together … That your association with me puts you in any kind of danger … I just can’t fathom that.” Closing his eyes, he admitted, “I would rather lose the Machine than you.”

“Oh, Harold.” Her fiancé did not speak of love very often, he preferred to show it with gestures like a new book or a painting in a gallery. Admissions like this made her aware of how much his heart belonged to her. “Nothing bad will happen to me. And if it’s true that our hound is a shape–shifter, already bound to you, then we will simply redecorate one of the guest–rooms to his liking and see where we go from there. Your concerns are his already, so we don’t have to worry. Just look at Sameen and Samantha. Though Sam is usually this furious person, Samantha is her whole world. She would never harm her.”

“It’s not as easy as that,” Harold sighed, looking at the park where Root and Shaw were playing with the hound. “Shapeshifters can contradict their anchors. It’s just a battle of will. The military has done extensive studies to … modify their behaviour.”

“You mean punish them if they don't submit.”

Helplessly he nodded, very much abhorring of having to confront Grace with such concepts.

“Harold,” she turned his face, so that he had to look at her. “Do you consider the people who executed these punishments good and kind?”

“Of course, not! Such tactics are atrocious!”

“You are a good man.” She stated with conviction. “You are kind and gentle and you always try to do the right thing. I don’t think that you will give this man, no matter who he turns out to be, a reason to contradict you and endanger the people you love.”

Kissing her gently, Harold pulled Grace close and sighed. “I hope so, dear. I sincerely hope so.”

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Something was wrong, John could feel it in his gut. Everybody was suddenly eager to spend time with him. Root and her shifter had brought him to the park two times in the last five days. Nathan was offering him treats and Grace was grooming him more often than usual. Not that he minded the last part, he loved having Grace brush him. She was always so gentle when untangling his knots.

Harold too was behaving strangely. Often John caught him starring, but the man always avoided his gaze. He was concerned, but John couldn’t think of a reason why. Hence had no chance to appease his anchor. Once again, he was tempted to shift back, but the attempt ended in pain once more, so he abandoned the effort. He merely followed Harold around, nudging him when he was working too long and tried to be overall helpful. He fetched an umbrella when a soft shower occurred one afternoon, and the fire−extinguisher when one of Harold’s computers burst up in flames. Still, the unease he sensed from his master grew each day, and by the end of the week it was making John agitated.

Friday evening, all humans piled up in Harold’s living–room, watching a mindless movie. A sense of anticipation lingered in the air, making John even more nervous than before. He hadn’t had much of an appetite since his kibble tasted funny today, but in the end his stomach convinced him, that eating was a good idea. Afterwards he paced for a while, but finally curled up in his spot by the book–case where he could keep an eye on everybody. He was surprised to notice that Root and Shaw, as well as Nathan seemed prepared to stay the night. After they had retreated for the night, a black, Persian cat emerged from the second guest–room.

It approached him, hissing when he tried to scent her, before jumping onto his back, curling up. He didn’t dare to move all night but fell asleep eventually.

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The next morning John felt dizzy. His limbs seemed to be filled with lead and every step was an effort. He could barely comprehend what Harold was saying when the human brushed over his head, whispering, "I'm sorry, but there is no other way."

Looking at Sameen, Harold inquired, "Are you sure about the dosage? He seems very weak."

Picking up the dog, something no human could have done as easily, she snarled, "Of course I am sure. Do you think this is the first shifter I treat?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Shaw. This is harder for me than I have anticipated." Harold admitted, following the shifters to an inconspicuous car that would drive them to a clinic. Thanks to the generous donation of Harold Raven an entire wing was currently renovated. Leaving several operating rooms and an ICU unoccupied but fully functioning.

Watching his agitated friend, Nathan tried to sooth him, "Everything will be fine, Harold. You know that Shaw is an exceptional surgeon."

"Just because she can stitch up almost everything, doesn't mean that she is a versed neuro−surgent."

"You should have more faith, Harry." Root piped up from the back−seat where she and Sameen were securing the hound. "I have complete faith in Sameen. And Dr. Tillman will assist. You really don't have to worry about anything. The Machine calculates his chances of survival to be around 97,65%."

Pressing his lips together, Harold tried to take a few steadying breathes. He had met this hound not even a month ago, and still, the idea of something happening to him was decidedly unpleasant. Still, Harold wanted to have faith in the abilities of his friends, so he kept himself from continuing the conversation.

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"Finch, get in here, he won't let the anaesthesia take." Shaw ordered, holding open the door to the operating room.

Harold, who had been prepared to spend the duration of the operation in one of the half−finished waiting rooms, instantly limped closer. Though the hound was sluggish in his movements, he seemed to try and fight his way up from the table where Dr. Tillman and Sameen were currently holding him. Supressing his own agitation, Harold approached the animal, petting it. "Hush, everything is alright. There is a chip implanted into your body. We must remove it. We think it's the reason you can't shift back to human. Everything will be alright, just calm down."

Fortunately, the shifter reacted to Harold's calming touch and soothing words and ceased his struggles. Within a minute he was under.

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Something was wrong, John realized that immediately after waking. He felt too big; uncomfortable in his own skin. Then the memories hit him. Harold had talked to him about shifting back. The human knew! This was … not good. John didn't want him to know. He wanted to stay animal, stay his pet, because as a pet he was liked. He didn't …

Despite his frantic struggles, the darkness pulled him back down.

When he woke the next time, night had fallen. He wanted to roll over and curl up on his side, but his limbs were too long for the motion. Uncomprehending he looked at his hands, watched the strange plastic tubes … IV−lines he remembered … emerge from his skin. Clumsily he pawed at them. He didn't want plastic in his body. Nor did he want the drugs they were giving him. He wanted Harold … all he wanted was Harold but the human wasn't there. Had he abandoned John already?

A moment later the door was opened and Grace came in. She balanced two cups of coffee and two soda−cans on a tray. Harold followed with sandwiches and chips. John watched the two humans set up an improvised dinner−table in the corner. When the man passed the bed, John couldn't help but whine. He wanted to rise, to approach the two humans, but his body wasn't responding. They must have drugged him.

He wasn't prepared for the joy that emanated from Harold when he laid eyes on him. "You're awake. That's great." Putting down their dinner, he and Grace came over, gently touching his hands and his head to calm his distress. Instinctively John pressed his face into Harold's hand and tried to close his fingers around Grace's. Her soothing words calmed him when she whispered, "It's alright. Everything is okay. Just go back to sleep. We'll be here when you wake again."

Obediently, John closed his eyes.

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"He's older than I have anticipated." Harold mumbled after taking a bite from the mediocre sandwich they had acquired in the hospital's cafeteria.

Smiling, Grace wanted to know, "Really, what age have you anticipated? I certainly couldn't tell that he was in his forties when he was canine."

"I … that's not what I meant. I was just wondering. All studies indicate that it is harder for a shape−shifter to get used to a knew anchor, the later in life he makes the connection."

"He already is connected to you. Why are you concerned?" Grace put down her sandwich and reached for the chips. She tried not to get used to Harold's high standards, but this food was simply inedible.

Sighing, Harold looked out of the window into a starless sky. "He will need a new anchor eventually. I just don't want life to be difficult for him. Well, not more than it is already."

"Do you plan on abandoning him?" She asked quietly, her tone not revealing any personal thought on the matter.

"I don't, but …"

With a smile, she finished for him, "But you are a very private person and you're afraid that him living with us will complicate things."

"I do," Harold admitted, looking at her. "What little we know about his past; it couldn't have been pleasant. I don't want him to suffer, if I can prevent it."

"Harold," Grace reached out and covered his hand with hers. "I'm sure we will find a way for him to get comfortable. You've helped so many people, why should this man be any different? We should cross this bridge when we get there. First, he has to get better. Everything else is second."

Smiling, Harold pulled her hands to his lips and kissed them lovingly. "You're right of course. But now you need to head home and rest."

"Only if you promise to do the same."

Looking at the sofa Root and Shaw had dragged into the room, Harold nodded. "I promise."

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The early morning−light melted John's drug−induced sleep. As before the feeling of wrong filled his body, on par with a bone−deep exhaustion. Realizing that not only the sun but his own body had woken him, John stumbled out of bed and made his way to the in−suit bathroom. Relieving himself while sitting felt strange, but neither did he have to strength to keep standing, nor did he want to piss like a dog. Padding over to the bed again, he heard a quiet snore.

Relief flooded him when realized that Harold was sleeping on a couch under the window. Thoughtlessly he pulled the sheets from the bed and put them on the floor in front of the sofa. Wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, John closed his eyes. Sleep came easy.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, you can find me on tumblr: [Anchanee](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/anchanee) I hope all of you had a lovely Christmas and I wish you a Happy New Year!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He seems quite taken with you," Harold commented, looking at his fiancé.  
> "He's taken with both of us," she contradicted. "Just because you won't touch him doesn't mean that he doesn't crave it."  
> Straightening in his chair, he admitted, "I don't feel particularly comfortable with that idea."  
> "Harold," Grace gentle prodding made him turn towards her. "This is not about you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit that I truly adore Grace, so she plays a much bigger role in my story than she ever could in the show. I hope you'll like her as well :).

### Recovery

"This can't be comfortable. Please, wake up."

A gentle hand was rubbing his shoulder and John wanted to curl into the touch. But when he moved, the hand retreated making the shape−shifter grumbled and open his eyes reluctantly. He beamed happily when he noticed Harold awkwardly crouched down in front of him. Instantly he wanted to approach, to nuzzle, but he got tangled up in the stupid blankets, swatting at them clumsily.

"Calm down," Harold requested quietly. "Let me help you." And just like that the blankets untangled, leaving John to crawl closer to the human, happily rubbing his head against the men's chest. A part of him still remembered that Harold wasn't that stable on his feet, so he was careful not to apply too much pressure. Still, he had the man staggering. "Yes … ahm … very good but … but you should go back to bed. You're by far not recovered enough to be out of it."

John hesitantly reached out to clutch Harold's shirt. He didn't like the idea of them being separated again. Even if it was just a few meters between the table − where he could hear a laptop whirring − and the bed.

Yet before the idea of losing Harold could make him tremble, Grace entered. Harold seemed relieved to see her, much like John. Immediately he rose from the floor and bounded over. Noticing that he was taller than her, he recalled that he should appear as unthreatening as possible, for her to like him. Therefore, he sank to his knees in front of her, rubbing his forehead against her belly. Contrary to Harold, Grace instantly started to pet him. Her fingers scratching his head made him rumble with delight. "Oh my … you're still a sweetheart."

"A sweetheart with a mind of his own." Harold sighed, kissing her cheek before complaining, "He doesn't want to go back to bed."

Afraid that Grace too would push him away, John clutched her cardigan, whining under his breath.

"I'm sure he would go if you would join him," she joked.

Harold's indignant, "I certainly will not go to bed with him!" made her laugh.

Looking around, she suggested, "What about the sofa?" Looking down at the man who still clenched her clothes, she prompted, "The sofa is closer to Harold." When he didn't let go, she proposed, "I will sit in the corner, and you can lie down beside me?"

Looking up cautiously, John crouched back before straightening. Picking up his blankets, he curled up on the couch and watched them, not sure if they would keep their promise. After a heartbeat, Harold claimed the chair in front of his laptop and Grace the corner of the couch. Tentatively John stretched, until the tips of his toes were touching her thighs, ready to pull back on a moment's notice. But contrary to his expectations, Grace just rubbed briefly over his feet before she started to unpack the white bag she had brought.

Coffee, Tea, croissants as well as pastries were distributed on the table. John watched with delight as both Harold and Grace sighed contently when they took the first sip of their drink. The smell of the pastries made his stomach rumble. He covered his belly guilty, but noticed that a chuckling Grace held out a croissant for him.

"It's plain," she explained, "Sameen isn't sure how much you're able to stomach."

Reaching for it he opened his mouth but nothing came out. He wanted to say 'Thank you'; an appropriate response if someone was offering something. But his body didn't seem to cooperate with his mind. Distressed he looked at Grace, and whined.

Yet instead of becoming angry, like Kara would have if he didn't fulfil her expectations, she patted his leg benevolent. "It's alright. Don't worry. Sameen said that after staying in canine−form for so long, it is to be expected that your mind has trouble catching up with being human again. Just eat your breakfast and rest."

Obediently John bit into his pastry, swallowing it down with three bites. Chuckling, Grace offered another, and another one after that, with a cup of camomile tea. Once everything had been consumed, John felt drowsy again. Relaxing against the sofa, he rumbled happily when Grace rubbed his shanks until he fell asleep.

"He seems quite taken with you," Harold commented, looking at his fiancé.

"He's taken with both of us," she contradicted. "Just because you won't touch him doesn't mean that he doesn't crave it."

Straightening in his chair, he admitted, "I don't feel particularly comfortable with that idea."

"Harold," Grace gentle prodding made him turn towards her. "This is not about you."

Pressing his lips together unhappily, the man nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

"That's all I ask," she smiled, reaching for the book she had brought, finishing her coffee.

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"Fetch!"

The command pulled John out of his comfortable doze. Instinctively he reached for the red ball that was thrown at him.

Sauntering into the room, Sameen decided, "Good, you're not going at it with your teeth like the dog you are."

Rising from the couch, John stalked over, growling angrily. He might be a canine shape−shifter but he most certainly was not a dog! A warm hand touching his right shoulder made him abandon the motion.

"Miss Shaw, there certainly is no need to be insulting," his master reprimanded.

"Harold." John sighed, instinctively leaning into the touch. His voice was rough from disuse, but he felt elated by the joy that spread through his anchor when John said his name. Especially when the man encouraged him.

"Very good. Can you say something else for me? Your name perhaps?"

Frowning, John thought about the request. It was not easy. Not only because he still head trouble forming words but because names were a complicated thing. He had been born with one and had used it when joining the military. But then he had started special training and they had told him that he didn't possess a name any longer. He had changed anchors, every single one of them had used another moniker. Then there had been Kara, she had named him Reese. He wasn't sure if he liked that name. Was Harold referring to the last name he had carried or the one his parents had given him? He tilted his head, trying to decide, clenched his fists when the answer wouldn't come. But Harold's word soothed him again.

"Calm down. It's alright. Maybe you just need more time."

Confused John turned around, looking at Harold. But the man seemed completely at ease with the situation. Anchors had demanded absolute obedience in the past. Nobody had ever withdrawn a question, just because it agitated him. He was supposed to function. Heed the commands; finish the missions. His own wishes had never been taken into consideration. But Harold did. Harold cared about him, even though he had stated repeatedly that he didn't want him.

So John tried. This man had asked but one, tiny thing. Surely he could offer at least that. "John."

A small smile tugged at Harold's lips and John preened under the attention. "Hello, John."

"Hallo, Harold."

"Oh my god," Sameen forced out. "It's like watching a lovesick puppy."

"Sameen," Root admonished with a smile. "Be nice. John has had a hard time."

Strolling over, the cat−shifter barged into his personal space, barring her teeth at him. "If he's having such a hard time, he should be in bed, not wagging around his anchor."

Instantly John bared his teeth, growling menacingly. This man might not want to be his anchor, if his noticeably flinch at these words were anything to by, but John wouldn't allow a feline to get into his face like that. He was still a proud canine, despite recovering from his animal form.

"I saw him first, you know." Sameen pranced, stepping around John, reaching out to touch Harold. "And I've known him longer than you."

Furiously John howled, lashing out towards her, growling, "Mine!"

Instantly Shaw retreated from Harold, parried his attack and stroke him down by sweeping him off his feet. Yet if there was anything John had ever excelled at, it was fighting. It was a joy to fall back into familiar motions; his mind was clearer when he didn't have to think; only react to what was happening right in front of him.

The "Miss Shaw …" and "Please … is this really necessary?" from Harold barely registered in John's mind. This kitty had contradicted his claim on his anchor. He was Harold's and Harold was his and he wouldn't share!

Fortunately, Root could read Sameen's intentions, so she pulled Harold towards the couch and sat down beside him. Patting his hand, she assured, "There is nothing better after a long shift then to rely on muscle memory. Relax, Harry, your John won't be able to hurt her."

Looking at the two shifters tensely, Harold sighed, "It's not Miss Shaw's wellbeing I'm concerned about."

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Grace's anxious, "What's going on here?" Made John freeze mid−motion and Sameen instantly went from 'ripping out your throat' to 'we're having a nice chat' as soon as she spotted the woman.

Wandering over to Root, claiming the armrest by her side, the female explained airily. "I was just helping John to get acquainted with his body once again."

"What …?" The red−head stammered. Taking in John's slightly dishevelled appearance, she approached him and gingerly touched his injuries, making John preen inwardly at the attention. "Was it really necessary to scratch him up like that, right after his operation?"

Shrugging, Sameen stole the candy−bar Root had been nibbling at. "He'll live."

Concerned, Grace looked up at John and asked. "Are you alright?"

Briefly glimpsing over to Harold, John nodded, "Yes, Grace."

"You're speaking, that's great!" She beamed and immediately John relaxed. If Grace was smiling, he couldn't be in too much trouble for fighting with the cat. Her next question, however, threw him for the loop again. "So, how do you feel?"

Helplessly he looked at Harold, unsure how he should reply.

Sighing, Harold patted the couch by his side. "Why don't you sit down while we discuss what happens next."

That he could do. Eagerly he crouched down on the floor beside Harold, rubbing his forehead against the men's knee.

Noticing her fiancé's uncomfortable look, Grace claimed the place by his side. Quietly she reminded him, "It's not about you."

Hesitant, Harold reached out. At his second attempt, he managed to put his hand on John's neck. The shifter rumbled and sagged against him, closing his eyes. "Alright," Harold started, "So, what should we do now?"

Throwing away the candy−wrapper, Sameen revealed, "Clinically I can't do anything for him anymore. He should take it easy, but as far as I can tell there are no lingering effects on his extended shift. We'll have to study his behaviour, but he doesn't have to stay at the clinic for that."

Instantly, Harold felt John stiffen by his side. The shifter forced his breath into an even pattern, but his unease grew exponentially. So Harold decided to rip off the proverbial band aid. "I think our guest−room is an acceptable alternative to this hospital. It might not meet all of your expectations, John, but we can remedy that as soon as you know what you want to change."

The shifter looked at him hopefully, "I'll go with you?"

"Of course you'll go with us, sweetheart," Grace assured him. "Where else would you stay?"

Rubbing his forehead against Harold's knee once again, John whispered, "Thank you," reaching for Grace's hand when she caressed his hair and kissed it reverently.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Sameen sneered, pulling Root to her feet. "Let's go." Briefly hugging Grace, baring her teeth when John growled again, she promised, "I'll come around tomorrow to see how he's doing. Call me if anything changes."

.

 

### Abandonment Issues

After the door had closed behind the two women, Grace chuckled, "Sameen sure likes to get a rile out of people."

Sighing, Harold pressed down on John's nape, calming the agitated shifter. It seemed that John's animalistic instincts were still close to the surface. "Go get dressed, John. We don't want to draw attention and I'm afraid a half−naked man in scrubs would do just that. Even in a city as eccentric as New York."

Grace fetched the bags she had left at the door, pulling out underwear and socks, shoes and soft trousers as well as a thick pullover. "I didn't know what he liked so I opted for warm but soft materials."

"Thank …," John started, clearing his throat before repeating easier, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now why don't you freshen up while I remove the tags?" Offering a toilet bag, she pulled out some scissors and set to work.

As ordered, John retreated to the bathroom. Though he needed a little longer than usual, he made it out in under ten minutes, teeth brushed, hair combed and freshly showered. There had been a razor as well, but he didn't feel confident enough to put a sharp blade to his skin. He entered the room to Harold and Grace's quiet conversation. "You know that I don't feel comfortable with this. He will …"

"He will be grateful just to be with you." She cut him off, gently. "He's yours, Harold. At least for now. You have to come to terms with that. The bond wears off eventually, but right now you have to accept that John _wants_ to stay by your side."

"But I'm …"

"… a very private person. I know."

Harold sighed defeated. "Alright, I'll do my best. I still feel like I'm taking advantage. He's a human−being, Grace. He shouldn't have to defer to me. That's simply not right."

"You expect Sameen to defer to you!"

Harold protested vehement. "That is hardly the same. Miss Shaw is working for me."

"I could … I could work for you too." John forced out. It hurt that his anchor didn't want him. But he had brought this onto himself. Harold had not had any part in their bonding. It was wrong to force such a responsibility on someone. Yet the idea of leaving, was more than John could take. He wanted to be close to the man, and to his fiancé. Grace was such a lovely woman, compassionate and kind. She didn't know about all the bad things the word had in store for people like him. John wanted to keep it that way.

Slowly approaching the couple. John implored, "You help … I want to help too." He hadn't understood everything he had seen and heard at the library, but he _knew_ that Harold was a good person. Knew in a way he had never known with his former anchors. That he was willing to go any length to help people and Nathan and Root and Shaw as well. He wanted to be part of that. If he proofed himself useful, Harold would let him stay, maybe even consider a bond out of his own free will.

Looking him up and down, recalling the way he had fought, Harold decided, "Let's leave this discussion for later. Please dress so we can go home."

Obediently John reached for the clothes and lost his scrubs.

He froze when he sensed Harold's mortification, but fortunately Grace manoeuvred her fiancé out of the door.

"We'll wait outside." She promised.

Kara had been delighted to look. She had burned the last shame out of him. But Harold wasn't Kara, even if John wished he could be a little more like her. At least then John would know what was expected of him.

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Entering the town house was both familiar and strange at the same time. Though John had spent the better part of the last two weeks here, these surroundings had never felt so small. He had to resist the urge to walk around and touch everything to familiarize himself with these surroundings once again.

From the looks of it, Grace seemed to suspect as much, because she told him, "Why don't you go up. I prepared the second guestroom for you. I'll try to whip up some lunch."

Gazing at Harold for a heartbeat, John walked up the stairs, taking two at a time. He had been in this room before. Nathan preferred to sleep here, since the other guestroom was reserved for Root and her shifter. However, very little here reminded of its usual occupant. The bed had new sheets that smelled ever so faintly of laundry deterrent. Also, a new potted plant decorated the windowsill. Though John appreciated the gesture, the room felt somehow sterile, lacking the homey feeling of a place where people regularly spent their time. Rumpled sheets would have at least indicated that someone had used them before.

Looking at himself in a tall mirror, John tried to familiarize himself with his human body once again. He was tall, with hair as dark as it was in his dog-form, though there were strands of silver mixed into it. He dragged his fingers through the short strands, then over his coarse beard. Somehow, as a human he didn't feel right to be covered in that much fur ... hair. Entering the bathroom, he put the toilet-bag, Grace had gifted him, on the counter. His hands were a little steadier now. Maybe he should shave? Cleaning up would probably endear him to these humans.

He managed to soap up his face, but when he put the safety razor to his skin, he hesitated. His fingers were trembling ever so slightly and he couldn't even tell if it was from nerves or if his body still needed time to adapted. A knock on the door had him snatch it open, discovering Grace on the other side.

"I'm sorry, but you didn't answer when I knocked before." Taking him in, she offered, "Do you need help shaving?"

Wordlessly he nodded and held out the razor.

With a soft smile, she prompted him, "Why don't you sit down on the edge of the tub. I'm afraid like this you're too tall for me."

Obediently he sank down, tilting his face back. It didn't bother him that he gave her both means and opportunity to hurt him. Grace would never do that. She was good. She looked nice and smelled even better. Clenching the edge of the tub, he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with her perfume and natural scent. As a human, smells might be harder for him to savour, but this close, Grace's was nearly overwhelming. He groaned quietly when she pulled the razor over his cheek.

Instantly concerned with the unusual noise, Grace stopped, "Did I hurt you?"

Looking up with blown pupils, John swayed towards her. His voice was hoarse when he took stock of his body. "No ... yes ... oh god." He was _reacting_ to her, to the female of his ~~master~~ anchor ... he had no right to do that. Pressing his legs together, nearly hurting himself because this movement constricted his rising manhood, he hastily slid away from her. When he looked up, he noticed a faint blush covering her cheeks. Mortified he realized that Grace had noticed his predicament. Bringing as more space between himself and her, he lowering his head in humiliation.

Yet instead of berating him, Grace put away the razor and stammered, "Yes ... well ... why don't I come back later when ... I mean it looks like you could use some time to yourself."

The animal part of him wanted to give chase. To drag her back and make her feel so good so that she might accept him as a potential partner. But being human, capable of reasoning, he clawed at his thighs, distracting himself with pain. This was not good, not good at all. He didn't know how much time he had, so he tugged on his new clothes and turned on the shower full force. Only after the ice-cold water had snuffed out his bodies reactions, was he able to breathe again. This should not have happened. Grace was ... special … not his … Harold's ...

How could he have let himself get carried away like that? Now Harold would be convinced that inviting John into his home had been a bad idea. Anchors were usually very proprietorial. Shape−shifters belonged to them and none of John's former masters had ever let him forget that. Kara had even insisted on him being on four legs as long as she hadn't needed him for a mission. To her he had been nothing but a useful pet with a special trick up his sleeve. How could he have forgotten his place?

When there was another knock on the door, John didn't dare to lift his eyes. He was not sure if he could face Grace again. He should apologize. In the past, his anchors had been more lenient in their punishments, when he had submitted on his own. Also, he had to plan of how to apologize to Harold. This whole situation was a nightmare. Barely human and he had already broken the most important rule: Never go after what belongs to your master. That was a sure way of getting punished or worse, abandoned. Covering his head as if he could block out the world, he struggled to draw breath.

The water coming to a stop and a warm hand on his nape, made John look up. Instead of Grace, Harold standing in the bathroom and contrary to John's expectations he didn't appear angry, merely worried. The bond resonated the feeling, though he barely dared to reach for it. "Are you ready to come out?"

Even his words were gentle. Why was Harold not angry with him? This was not at all going as expected. Awkwardly climbing out of the tub, wading through the water that had drizzled onto the floor, John shivered and wrapped himself in the towel his master provided; sinking down on the edge of the tub once more. He barely flinched when Harold started to dry his hair. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I'm sorry," John forced out, looking desperate. He couldn't find the right words for an elaborate apology. But Harold deserved to know how much he detested his bodies reactions and that he hadn't meant any of it. He would never touch Grace. She ...

Unfortunately, Harold felt the need to elaborate, "What are you sorry for? Grace told me that ... that she wanted to give you some time alone to compose yourself. She didn't speak of any slight on your part."

"I shouldn't have ... reacted that way. I don't ... I would never insult you by touching her. She's yours."

Harold was more than concerned to see the shapeshifter so agitated, so he gently carded his fingers though the man's wet hair. As before, John leaned into the gesture, though much more hesitant than before. It was as if he didn't deserve the comfort. Apparently, in his past, involuntary reactions had not been taken kindly. Not something Harold wanted to think about. Though he was aware how much a human body could train itself out off, he didn't think that a natural reaction like John's was supposed to fall into that category. He couldn't even hold it against him. Grace was a beautiful woman. Harold could understand the sentiment.

John, however, was clearly expecting punishment. This was not a situation Harold had expected to find himself in. Though he would have liked nothing more than to leave this bathroom, he recalled Grace's advice: 'This is not about you'. Composing himself, Harold soothingly rubbed John's neck. "Do you want me to finish your shave?" The shifter did look slightly ridiculous with but one clean streak on his right cheek. Hopefully the completion of the task would ease him.

Closing his eyes, swallowing the fear that threatened to drown him, John nodded. Of course, he would bare his neck to Harold. If the human decided to hurt him … well, it was nothing less of what he deserved. So, he tried to calm and allowed Harold to soap up the remnant of his beard a second time. He breathed through his nose when the man started his first stroke. Then the second and the third. When one cheek was clean, John opened his eyes.

Harold didn't seem mad. Not at all. He was just concentrated. His motions were steady but careful. The blade glide over his skin in precise strokes, not cutting him once. When a warm towel was pressed over his cheeks, he realized that the shave was complete and no harm had befallen him from the hands of his master. Offering some lotion, Harold explained, "Though I don't want to assume your preference in after-shave, I'm afraid we only have a barely scented shaving cream that will agree with your skin."

There was a lotus flower on the pink package. Confused, John looked at Harold.

"The lotion belongs to Miss Shaw. It's barely scented and will sooth your irritated skin better than anything I can provide. I'm sorry for the 'feminine touch'. We can go shopping, catering to your preferences, after lunch."

.

### A New Home

They resolved the situation with John and Grace like adults: they refused to talk about it. Having prepared salmon with potatoes and salad, Grace served a light lunch and when Harold shared his plans of going shopping with John, she just smiled and kissed his cheek. "I think that's an excellent idea. A few more clothes wouldn't hurt. And since I know how much you enjoy shopping I will leave you to it and gather my supplies for a nice afternoon in the park."

John was surprised to sense, how much Harold enjoyed what Grace was saying, though, for the life of him, he couldn't think of why. When looking at his anchor, John noticed that he was being scrutinized. He was not sure if he liked the discerning look.

"When was your last fitting, John?"

"I don't know."

Grace laughed at his startled expression when Harold pulled out a measuring tape after lunch. The man started dotting down every important measurement of John's body. The shifter felt seriously uncomfortable when Harold sank to his knees in front of him, taking the length of his legs both on the in− and outside seam.

Gently she brushed over his shoulder, on her way out, easing him somewhat. "Sorry, John, since I don’t really see the need for a new dress, you're the one to suffer now."

Writing down the last numbers, Harold piped up, "And yet you look so lovely in those bespoken robes."

Leaning down to kiss him, Grace promised, "For the next gala, Mister Crane will attend, I'll allow you to buy me a new gown. Would that make you happy?"

"It certainly would, thank you." Harold smiled, rising to his feet.

John froze when Grace passed him buy and brushed a kiss on his cheek. With an absent minded, "Have fun boys," she bounded up the stairs.

The shifter could barely supress his growing anxiety, dreading Harold's reaction to that open display of affection. Yet Harold only claimed a place on the couch, patting the sofa by his side. Hesitating John followed the non−verbal command, straightening when his master looked at him. "John, I'm afraid that you misunderstand the situation Grace's and my situation. While Grace might be my fiancé, she certainly does not 'belong to me' as you have so avidly put it."

Puzzled of where this was going, John lowered his eyes.

Only at Harold's gentle, "Please, look at me," did he raise his gaze again.

"Grace is a beautiful woman. She is kind and compassionate. She has the biggest heart I've ever met in a human being, and there is literally nothing I would not do for her. But that does not mean that I begrudge you her affection. From what I understand shape−shifter have the tendency to be quite tactile." When John tried to protest, Harold merely raised his hand. "Please, let me finish." Brushing off a piece of lint from his pants, he took a deep breath. "I would never, ever tell you to stay away from Grace. The amount of affection tolerable between the two of you, is determined by her alone. You may spend time in her presence, even touch her, if she enjoys it. I assume you can decide when she is not, and I expect you to retreat if that's the case. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

The thought was unfathomable, still, John tried his best to sum up what he had just heard, "You are not angry with me for … wanting her."

With a soft smile, Harold replied, "How could I, if I have fallen for her myself? You would have to be blind and deaf to be immune to Grace's charms."

"So you won't punish me."

Baffled, the man replied, "No, of course not. Why should I?"

"Because …," John honestly didn't know. All of this was too much for him. In the military, he had had a clear set of rules. With Kara, the rules had merely become more creative, a little more playful, but in the end, hadn't changed that much. But with Harold … everything was different. "What do you want me to do?" Asking for instructions seemed the easiest way out.

"I have to admit that I don't know. Judging from the way you held your ground against Miss Shaw, I would judge your skillset quite impressive. Though I can't determine the extent of it. So, I suggest we take this one day at a time. Stocking up on necessities today and see what to do with you tomorrow."

"Will I … be allowed to join you tomorrow?"

Harold couldn't supress the frown when he inquired, "To the library?"

At John's hesitant nod, he composed himself. It was foolish to try and protect his sanctuary, since the shifter had been there already. Maybe this was a good idea, he could see how John reacted to the numbers. The hope that he could keep them a secret, Harold had long since abandoned.

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The afternoon enlightening in a way, Harold had not imagined. Seeming completely at ease in the busy streets of New York, John always claimed a position behind his right shoulder. A position most armed personnel adapted when protecting someone, since it gave them a clear shot at whoever was approaching their charge. At first Harold was concerned, but after a few streets he realized that the shifter's menacing posture kept other people from approaching him. Not wanting to be remembered for his impromptu body−guard, Harold demanded quietly when they were waiting at an intersection, "Please, walk beside me, and stop glaring. These people are not my enemies."

"They might touch you if they come too close!" Was John's somewhat vicious response.

"They might," he agreed, "But we are in New York city. I'm afraid contact with other people is unavoidable."

"I …" John seemed prepared to contradict him, but deflated after a moment. "Yes, Sir."

The streetlight turned green so Harold had to brush away his concerns for the moment. Once they arrived at Harold's favourite tailor, he was greeted with a warm handshake and Archangelo Sartorial's, "Mister Crane, it is so good to see you again."

"Thank you, for seeing us on such short notice, Archangelo." Harold smiled. Usually he preferred to not get overly familiar with people that worked for him, but Archangelo was an exception. Ever since the man had opened his store in 2007, Harold had enjoyed buying his suits here. The tailor was inconspicuous and hadn't battered an eye when Harold had rolled in with his wheelchair after the ferry bombing. He had appreciated that discretion.

"It's always a pleasure, Mr. Crane." The man tilted his head with a comforting smile, before looking John up and down with a critical eye. Then he stage−whispered, "Please tell me that I'm allowed to outfit this gentleman. He's gorgeous."

"To your heart's content," Harold confirmed with a smile.

After that, the morning became a whirlwind of activity for John. Though Harold offered his measurements, the tailor pulled the tape off his neck and added a few numbers to the list. Then he showed fabric after fabric and started to discuss patterns with Harold. Within the next two hours three suits, six shirts and two pairs of jeans were ordered. Though John protested that they could very well get jeans at Macy's, Harold and Archangelo had looked at him so scandalized, that he had kept his opinion to himself after that. It wasn't his decision anyway. The idea that Harold spent several thousand dollars on clothes for him, made him both unease and elated at the same time. Call him vain, but the canine shifter enjoyed being groomed. Kara had always made it very clear that she expected John too look his best. On the other hand, if his master was willing to spend so much money on him, he certainly expected something in return. And John still had to figure out how to repay him.

After Archangelo Sartorial they entered another boutique and acquired sports−gear. Also, they acquired a decent pair of jeans, though Harold looked slightly pained to buy something 'off the rack'. After John had changed, they left for a coffee shop. "Grace will be at the park painting. We can surprise her with coffee and a pastry."

Harold was sure that John would have wagged his tail, at the prospect to meet with Grace. He seemed quite taken with her and to be honest – something Harold always tried to be, at least with himself – he was glad for it. Adding another person to their home was complicated enough, especially because Harold usually needed time to warm up to new people. Yet to see someone look at his fiancé with such open adoration was … comforting. Especially since John still threw Harold sideways glances, as if waiting for an order or if his actions and reactions were even allowed. The shifter was so desperate to please, that Harold felt the desire to learn of every one of John's previous anchors and grind them to the ground.

It might be an unfortunate truth that shape−shifters were used mostly for their special ability, if they enrolled in the military. But that didn't justify them being abused, as John clearly had been. Everyone needed a purpose. Otherwise people were just drifting. But nobody should have to give up any sense of self; submitting everything he was to another person; only to be able to fulfil that purpose. Sameen Shaw had been different from the beginning. She was willing to explode in everyone's face, if that person displeased her. She had cared a great deal for her anchor and Mr. Cole's dead had shaken her. But with Miss Groves, Detective Fusco and especially Lee, she had found a new support system that kept her animal side at bay if necessary, and thriving given the opportunity.

John was … different. It hurt Harold to see him so unsure. Inwardly he had long forgiven Nathan for forcing the shifter on him. His best friend, neither had the time nor the opportunity to give the shape−shifter the attention he deserved. Harold wasn't sure that he could, but with Grace's help, John would be better off with them than anywhere else.

They were waiting at Grace's favourite coffee shop, when a slightly run−down man at the front, pulled a weapon, yelling at the barrister to hand over the cash register. Effortlessly John pulled Harold behind his back, mumbling a quiet "Excuse me," before prowling towards the counter.

"Sorry, Sir," he mumbled and the moment the robber turned around, John reached for his gun and had him disarmed and on his knees in three seconds flat. The muggers vain struggle was met with a growled, "If you don't keep still, I'll break your arm!"

"I'm certainly that is not necessary." Addressing the barrister, Harold ordered, "Please call the police and hand over your belt so my friend here, can secure this misguided soul."

As soon as John had made sure that the guy was safely bound, Harold left the shop. He regretted losing this establishment from his list of possible vendors – Grace particularly like the coffee here – but he had no desire to be questioned by the police or to explain how John had come to him. Sighing he walked down the road, aiming for a coffee−shop on fifth street. Their pastries might not be as good, but their tea was considerably better than average.

After a while, John asked in a small voice, "Are you angry with me?"

Surprised Harold looked up. "Why on earth would I be angry?"

"Because I acted without orders …"

Taking in John's posture, noticing the unease he radiated, Harold reached out for him. Tentatively he put his hand on John's arm, assuring him, "You did good in there, dissolving a potentially hazardous situation with minimal violence. You were fast, cautious and efficient. I'm not angry, on the contrary, I feel distinctively proud of your actions today."

A slow smile spread over John's face. For a few moments, he looked at Harold with joy and open adoration before lowering his eyes again to hide a faint blush that covered his cheeks. His whispered, "Thank you," was barely audible, but Harold just squeezed his arm encouragingly before picking up the pace again.

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Laden with hot beverages and pastries they entered the park, watching Grace who was painting at the shore. Both man hesitated for a moment. She was so beautiful, bundled up in a thick sweater, taking in the bleak surroundings, finding the perfect scenery to create something beautiful.

"Whatever she looks at, she always sees the beauty in everything."

John couldn't say anything. He knew Harold to be true, but he didn't feel like he had the right to offer an opinion. A month ago he had not even known that Grace Hendricks existed. Had he known, maybe he would have put up more of a fight after Kara had shot him. Then on the other hand, maybe not. It was not as if, after everything he had done, all the blood he had spilled, he deserved to have someone like her in his life.

Right that moment, Grace turned around beaming when discovering them. As always, John was amazed that her smile didn't falter when looking at him. Offering the hot coffee, she kissed his cheek in gratitude before kissing Harold lovingly, accepting one of the pastries. "So, gentleman, how was your shopping trip?"

"Quite unexpected, if I may say so." Harold replied, claiming a place on a bench.

"How so," she wanted to know, looking both at them expectantly.

The way Harold told the story of the coffee shop, made John sound like a hero. He wasn't, but he liked the proud look Grace gifted him, so he didn't object.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that John is usually this forceful person on the show. But I think how his views himself is vastly different from how other people perceive him and his actions. I tried to reflect that in the coffee-shop scene. As long as he has a clear 'mission' in mind, he's very brute forward. Internally he still tries to balance what he's experienced with the military and the CIA and how Harold treats him versus how he expects Harold to treat him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would really feel more comfortable if you would stop doing that." Harold admonished quietly.
> 
> "Doing what? What did I do wrong?" Instantly worried, John sat up watching Harold coming over. In a barely there whisper, the man explained, "I don't like you referring to your former anchors as 'masters'. That feels too much like you were owned by them."
> 
> "But I was!"
> 
> "No, John," Surprisingly the man reached out and touched John's forearm. "You are a shape–shifter but you are not a slave. Nobody has the right to tell you what to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, remember John had a very black-and-white view of the world because that's what he was trained to believe. Harold operates in shades of grey (no pun intended here). It's hard for them to find a middle ground where both feel comfortable.

### A New Master

Harold was both harder and easier to deal with, than any master John had ever had before. Dealing with him was easier, because there were far less rules John had to bow to. It was harder because there were less rules that guided his behaviour. That was liberating and unsettling at the same time.

Dinner tonight, was a perfect example of that ambiguous situation. It had been nice, no doubt about that but …

John had been allowed to help Grace in the kitchen and Harold had even complimented their meal. Afterwards the couple had watched a movie together, leaving John to entertain himself with a book. Admittedly he didn't get very far, too wrapped up in watching Harold and Grace snuggled together on the couch but it had been nice. Nicer than being curled up at Kara's feet while she had gone out with one guy or the other, or being forced to join her in a mindless movie marathon.

After the movie, Harold had bid Grace and John good night and retreated to his study. Not sure of what was expected of him, John had depart to his room as well. It was not as if he wasn't tired. After waking up in the hospital and all the commotion today, he felt weary and exhausted. Yet his exhaustion didn't give way to sleep. He was merely turning in bed, watching the numbers on the clock strike eleven, twelve, one … he wanted to do something, but wasn't sure how he was allowed to entertain himself, or even if he was permitted to ascend to the second floor to ask his master.

Pacing his room, he froze mid−motion, when he heard Harold walking down the corridor. After a few moments of tense silence, he picked up his pace again, unable to find sleep. A heartbeat there was a soft knock on his door. "John, are you still awake?"

The voice was barely louder than a whisper, but even in his human form, John had exceptional hearing. Opening the door, he asked worried, "Do you need anything, Harold?"

"No," the man shook his head, straightening the lapels of the dressing gown, he had pulled over his silk pyjamas. "I simply heard you and was wondering if you were uncomfortable."

Shaking his head, John looked at the bed, "No, it's … the bed is very soft. Really nice."

"Still, you are not sleeping."

Helpless to come up with a response, John frowned, searching for words. "It's very … generous and quiet and … and thank you for giving me this room."

"Do you want to come to the study with me? I have a couch."

"Yes!" John nearly interrupted Harold, though he was aware that such insolence was frowned upon. But the idea of not being locked away (though of course nobody had locked his room) was decidedly more appealing than watching the hours tick by.

"Alright, I …" Harold swallowed, taking back a step. "Follow me, please."

John had been at the second floor only once; Grace had made it clear that these were her and Harold's 'private' rooms. He had not gone there afterwards. Usually he had slept at the end of the staircase. The faint noises coming from above had comforted him. Now he followed Harold to the man's study, the biggest room aside of the attic where Grace's studio was. The study was lined with bookshelves, had a comfortable couch at the side and a quite elaborate computer system set up on a big mahogany desk in the middle. A double door, filled with glass separated it from the master−bedroom.

Following John's gaze, Harold explained with a quiet smile, "Though I was concerned of bothering Grace when working late, she insists that my typing sooths her. Please be quiet."

Obediently John nodded and walked the windows to enjoy the view over Washington Square Park. Setting down his tea−cup, Harold retreated to the computers and started typing. After a while, the shifter realized that Harold's even and quiet key−strokes indeed were very calming. Choosing a book from the vast collection, he retreated to the couch.

Not looking up, Harold informed him quietly, "There is a blanket under the table. In case you get cold."

It was warm and comfortable so John curled up under the fabric, gazing at the men who offered his home and his support and his protection so easily, seemingly wanting nothing in return. People usually weren't that selfless, not in John's book. Still, he couldn't help but relax in surroundings where Harold’s scent clung to the very walls. It was dangerous to let his guard down. This human could do almost anything to him. And in case Harold proved that they were bonded, nobody would hold him responsible for even the harshest abuse. Especially since John was former black ops. The CIA would most likely sweep the whole thing under the rug and Harold wouldn't be worse for wear. It might put him on their radar, but Harold Finch or Crane or Wren or any other alias this man possessed, surely would be able to deal with that.

Still, so far Harold had asked but one thing of him: his name. Of course John had only been 'human' for half a day but …

"Reese."

"Excuse me?"

Wondering if he was making a terrible mistake, John swallowed around his constricting throat. "You asked my name, today at the hospital. The one Kara, my last master gave me was 'John Reese'."

"I would really feel more comfortable if you would stop doing that." Harold admonished quietly.

"Doing what? What did I do wrong?" Instantly worried, John sat up watching Harold coming over, claiming the place on the coffee table. He seemed slightly uneasy to sit down on the piece of furniture, but made a conscious effort to ignore that, in favour of being at eye–level with John. In a barely there whisper, the man explained, "I don't like you referring to your former anchors as 'masters'. That feels too much like you were owned by them."

"But I was!"

"No, John," Surprisingly the man reached out and touched John's forearm. "You are a shape–shifter but you are not a slave. Nobody has the right to tell you what to do."

Shaking his head, John straightened fully, mourning the loss of warmth when Harold's hand fell away. "I do need you to tell me what to do. That's the entire purpose of an anchor. You must command me, for me to be useful. I'm an animal inside. Someone has to keep the beast at bay."

"You are not a 'beast'. You have an animal inside you, you can call upon. But that doesn't make you wild. You can do anything you want, and while I give you, that studies have proven that shape−shifters thrive with a connection to the right anchor, you don't need me to tell you what to do." Straightening, Harold decided. "You don't need orders; you need a purpose."

"A purpose?"

"Yes," Harold insisted. "Something that helps you to make use of your abilities. You're former military. Why did you enlist?"

Shrugging, John replied. "I wanted to protect our country. To keep the people safe."

With a soft, inward smile Harold rose from the table, leaving John hanging. "I think we can do something about that. But now sleep. I sense that we have a long day ahead of us."

"Can I … can I sleep here?"

Smiling Harold nodded, "Of course. Have a good night, John."

After another hour, Harold retreated to the bedroom, opening his arms for Grace, who instinctively curled into him. Sleepily she asked, "Why is the door to the study still open?"

"Because John is sleeping there. I don't think he likes his room very much."

Yawning, Grace whispered, "We'll see what we can do about that tomorrow. Good night, Harold."

"Good night, love."

 

 

 

### The Library

The library was … different … John decided, when they entered the next day. For a dog, it had smelled thrilling with the reading spots and all the corners having been in public use before. Trails of other people's scents had seeped into the very furniture. As a human, John could appreciate the rows and rows of books. Literature of all types and ages. Reverently he brushed over the first editions in their worn covers. He itched to pull out a few and browse through them, but Harold hadn't given him permission. On the other hand, Root never asked. Maybe reading a book was implied when residing in a library?

Yet John couldn't concentrate on the literature right now. Not when, upon their arrival, a black Persian cat lay stretched out over the keyboards. Harold's stern, "Please, Miss Shaw, you know that I don't appreciate that. Your hair is getting into every groove," barely made her yawn let alone move.

John couldn't hold back the snarl, upon seeing the other shifter invading the space of his ~~master~~ anchor. She, however, didn't seem particularly impressed with his display of aggression. Slowly blinking her eyes, mocking him by classifying him as not threatening. After a minute, she stretched and yawned and relocated, but only after Harold's impatient gesture, "Shoo!"

Shaw moved about twenty centimetres, then curled up in front of the monitors, resuming her nap.

John did not like that, not at all. Walking over, he lingered behind Harold, glaring at the cat. He wanted to sit down next to his human, proof that Harold’s was his and not Shaw’s, but the man merely raised his eyebrows, explaining, “I have to do some coding. There are two more floors for you to explore. Make yourself comfortable wherever you like.”

Comfortable would mean having the other shifter out of this territory. But sadly, John was aware that this was impossible. The Library was neither his nor the cat’s territory. It belonged to Harold and Nathan. He should consider himself lucky that he was allowed to come along. Now that he wasn’t in animal form any longer, Harold might as well have left him at home. Look around the shelves, John discovered secret stashes of weapons, switched guns and rifles simply out of spite, before changing them back. No matter how little he liked Sameen Shaw, she was a professional. Everything was sorted by size and the magazines lay side by side in neat rows, next to the corresponding fire arm. It would do more harm than good in a crisis, if she couldn’t load her weapons, most likely putting Harold or Nathan or Root in unnecessary danger.

John took his time inspecting the library top to bottom. He found surveillance systems military grade in inconspicuous corners of the building. After a little while he also learned about customized, even smaller cameras and microphones that were nearly imperceptible. Had they not smelled ever so faintly of Harold, he would have never discovered them. John wasn’t sure who was spying on whom, but decided to memorize the layout, making sure that he would be able to use the blind spots, though they were few and far apart.

Leaving the library through the roof−exit made him shiver from the unexpected wind, but even up here, John discovered surveillance equipment in addition to another stash of weapons, a tablet and some cash. Sameen Shaw was good, and while John still didn’t like her, he had to respect her through planning.

He too had two ‘getaway’ stashes in this city. Additionally, he possessed one emergency kit that didn’t contain weapons but passports for different alias and several thousand bucks safely locked away at two major traffic junctions. Wherever he was in New York City, should his cover be compromised, he could reach at least one of them in under twenty minutes. The closest one was barely five minutes away from the library.

John could go for it right now and vanish; leave everything behind; find a new anchor or try to live without one. Maybe it would be better. His life would certainly be easier if he didn't have to bend to another person’s whim. Yet the fear of regressing was so ingrained into him, that he didn’t dare to entertain that idea for more than a few moments. A shifter needed an anchor. Without one the shifter, sooner or later, went feral, becoming more deadly than any ‘normal’ animal could ever be.

Also, if John was honest with himself, he didn’t want to leave. Nathan had brought him into the midst of this strange family, and he had come to like these people. Root was witty and sharp, even without claws. Sameen vicious, sometimes even cruel, but she had done her best to help him with the chip. Lionel was like their watchdog, loyal even though they didn’t always treat him right. John still hadn’t figured out the role the detective played, but he was certainly tied to this group as strong as anybody else. Nathan was … well, Nathan had found and saved him, even though he hadn't had the slightest reason to take pity on a stranded dog. Then there was Grace, she was the heart of this family, kind and caring, and finally Harold. John wondered if it had really been a mistake on his animal−side to lap up the human’s blood. Maybe the animal had seen a way out of their desperate situation. Until now Harold had proved to be a good anchor. He was dedicated and determined; behind his inconspicuous exterior, was a core of pure strength John felt irrevocably drawn to.

In the military, all an anchor had needed was a psyche evaluation. How Kara had passed that test, was still a mystery to John. The woman had been vain, sadistic and cruel. She had used everything and everybody to get the job done. Well, in the end that might be a valid explanation. Kara had had an unparalleled success rate. Their boss, Mark Snow, had assigned her a job and she had gotten it done. In black ops, nobody cared about the body count. Eliminating threads to national security came with an ocean of blood. Blood John could never get off his hands. The promise that their work was keeping the people of America safe, had been of little relief in the end. And when Kara had pulled a gun on him at Ordos, well … in a way John had been relieved. Sooner or later he might have done the same.

Yet with Harold, John had a new chance. He wasn’t even sure what the man and his team was doing exactly, just that they all were helping people. Harold might even be right: maybe John did need a purpose and this new anchor could give him one. Returning to the main room John blanched when he spotted his own picture starring back at him. Harold's monitors were filled with his file from the military. Mission reports from the CIA covered the next monitor.

“How did you … how did you find these?”

Why had he searched for them? John shouldn't have given Harold his name. Now his new anchor could discover every trigger he had pulled and every life he had ended.

“I have my ways,” Harold replied absent minded, before clicking a few buttons, “Yes, Miss Groves?

…

“Yes, I can see that.”

…

After a few tense moments, Harold stated, “I would most definitely advise against that! Please, Miss … yes, … yes, of course.”

With a sigh, he added, “I’ll get back to you shortly,” before ending the call.

John’s military history was still was on display on two of the five monitors, while the others showed a street–corner, a traffic camera and a surveillance camera from an unknown warehouse. Looking at the cat who blinked at him lazy, Harold stated, “Miss Shaw, I’m afraid you are needed.”

While John retreated, his mind still buzzing with the implications of what Harold had learned about all he had done, the other shifter yawned and stretched, then jumped off the table. Were he not so wrapped up in his own head, he would have been impressed by the shift mid–jump, enabling the small woman to land in a crouch before straightening. However, he couldn’t supress the angry snarl when she leaned over Harold, checking the cameras, butt naked.

“Miss Shaw,” Harold berated her scandalized. “Could you please cover yourself! You know that I don’t feel comfortable with you doing that!”

Grinning, she replied, “You have your own puppy now. You might as well get used to it,” before flouncing to the backroom. Three minutes later she came out, wearing all black, checking a gun while stashing another. Inserting an earpiece, Harold was offering, she tested the connection while the man instructed, “Go to Kingsbridge Road, I’ll direct you from there.”

“Sure thing,” she grinned, watching John up and down, making his hackles rise. “Have fun with your pet.” Then she strolled out.

Closing his eyes, apparently praying for patience, Harold connected to Root again. “Miss Shaw is on her way, but at this time of the day, she’ll need at least half an hour to reach you. Can you wait?”

…

Exhaling relieved, Harold nodded, “Yes, I’ll do my best. Thank you.”

Concentrating on the current predicament of Root and Shaw, Harold did not even notice when John retreated, hiding in a corner at the far side of the room.

Things were a different for Nathan who was just returning to New York.

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Five days in Hongkong and countless hours of negotiation with their new suppliers had drained Nathan Ingram. Though he knew he should return to the office and go over the new trading agreements, he really needed a few hours at the library to reassure himself that there were more important things in his life, than the life expectancy of a computer chip or the price of hardware. Compared with the work on the machine everything he did for IFT these days seemed so petty.

Yet the company he and Harold had built, was their most important front as well as monetary background. Though his friend had stored away millions … probably billions of dollars, he didn’t want to be a ‘kept man’ when it came to their vigilante project. Both he and Harold put a lot of time and effort into it, so Nathan felt equally responsible for financing their little crusade.

When he entered the library, he was not prepared for the tall, well–clad man who was curled up in the corner of their sofa. Afraid that their security had been breached, Nathan reached for the first impromptu weapon, a small stool they used to reach the higher shelves, and threatened the stranger, “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The man on the couch looked up like a deer in the headlight, pale and anxious, flinching back from the violent reaction.

Nathan's angry rant, however, drew Harold's attention, who ordered scandalized, “Nathan, good grace, put the stool down! You might break something.”

Gesturing towards the intruder, he replied outraged, “There is a stranger in the library and you are concerned about property damage?”

Sighing, Harold gestured for his friend to put down the furniture, before stepping closer, gently touching the shoulder of the unfamiliar man, who visibly relaxed at the gesture, but didn’t look any less guarded. “Nathan, this is John Reese.”

“And do I know this guy?”

With a stern gaze, Harold replied, “I should hope so. You forced him on me after all.”

Eyes growing impossibly wide, Nathan finally set down the stool and sank down on it, taking in the humanoid form of the hound he had rescued. “Another shape−shifter?” he stammered, “And you brought him here, of all places?”

He shouldn’t have come, John realized. This was Harold and Nathan’s sanctum. He might also have spare himself the undoubtedly fierce reaction, after Harold had taken his time to go over his rap sheet. Staying at home would have gained him a few hours of reprieve, before facing the fallout from his wrongdoings. Worst of all, now that Nathan was here, he and Harold would probably find a way to get rid of him permanently. Because, let’s be honest, who wanted a killer in their midst?

Would the co–founder of IFT be angry of having involuntarily acquired a shape–shifter?

Would Nathan just transfer him to someone else?

He could, John was aware, because officially he belonged to him. All papers for transporting a dog from New Mexico, were in Nathan Ingram’s name. The man didn’t even know that he had bonded with Harold. Expecting the worst, John couldn't meet Nathan’s eyes, when the man took him in.

Scratching the back of his head, Nathan sighed after a few moments and then shrugged. “Well, at least you look better than before. How do you feel, Mr. Reese?”

Eyes flying up, John was surprised to see honest concern in the man’s eyes. “I … better, thank you, Sir.”

“Oh, no,” Nathan shook his head. “Don’t call me ‘Sir’, it’s Nathan. We’re friends here, aren’t we?”

Looking up at Harold hopefully, he watched his anchor shake his head with a fond smile before returning to his monitors. “Thank you, Nathan.”

Nodding to himself, Nathan rose and trailed after his friend. “Well, now that that is out of the way, I would like to talk to you about our hardware, Harold. I think we need to change a few of the servers.” And just like that Harold was pulled away, leaving John alone in the main room.

Everything had gone unexpectedly well so far, John realized. Maybe Nathan Ingram didn’t seem want to throw him to the proverbial wolves, without at least talking to his anchor. And though Harold hadn’t said anything, he hadn’t cast John out either, though he had to have a good idea of the gruesome details of John’s former occupancy. John really couldn’t see how his new anchor could let something like that go. He was a highly-trained killer. Furthermore, his ability to transform into a sixty-pound dog, enabled him to reach areas that would be barred to a human. A faint beeping sound from the computers made John pick up the headset and connect to Root.

“Do you need support?”

“Have you been upgraded to helper–monkey already,” was her snide reply, but before John could explain, she continued, “We’re in a bit of a tight spot and need extraction. Could you get Harry?”

“Harold’s talking to Nathan. If you need to get out I suggest use the roof and then jump to the next building. It’s barely a three feet gap. The second building has a cellar you can use for your escape.” Well, John might not be a genius with computers as his anchor was, but he could navigate an open system and call up street–cams and blue−prints.

“That works,” came Shaw’s cut reply, before the line went quiet again.

Watching the shadows of the two women making their way through the building, John piped up now and then to warn them of some tails. After two silenced gun–shots and a quite daring jump the women were on their way to safety.

 

 

### What to do …

“He is a shape–shifter, Harold, military trained! Do you know how dangerous they are?” Nathan whispered agitatedly, after pulling Harold into the server–room.

“Believe it or not, I have done research on Mr. Reese.” Harold snapped. Nathan was responsible for this whole dilemma. In Harold's opinion, he had no right to talk him out of keeping the shape–shifter. “Though ‘Reese’ is undoubtedly not his only alias, I think it is his most recent. His missions read like the ‘who is who’ in relevant numbers, and while I don’t always agree with his methods, his only motive was keeping his country safe. He was good at what he did, despite a less than favourable handler.”

Slumping against one of their computers, Nathan wanted to know, “What do you mean, ‘less favourable’?”

Rubbing his neck, after the entire day coding, his head was killing him, Harold admitted, “Kara Stanton was a … well, let’s just say she enjoyed torturing the enemies of the state. She had a shape−shifter at her disposal and she made use of him. She used John's abilities as a dog, his highly-developed senses, his animal instincts. The man was only there to pull a trigger and look good if she needed either a distraction or an alibi. In my opinion she was negligent at best and abusive at the worst of times, though of course it was never recorded, because John had no human rights when working for the CIA.”

“Darn …” Nathan mumbled. “And what do you plan on doing with him now?”

“Well,” Harold drooped against the wall facing Nathan. “I’ll do my very best to be neither abusive nor negligent.”

“Why would you be, you’re not his anchor?” When the man noticed how his friend avoided his eyes, he started to dig. “You aren’t, Harold. Please, tell me that you didn’t force yourself on this poor bastard, just to gain another crusader for our project!”

Equally hurt and outraged, Harold hissed, “What do you think of me? Of course, I didn’t! He just … I was assaulted a few days ago and slightly wounded in the process. John … he lapped at the wound. Long story short, we both forgot that blood–transfer works quite efficient in creating a bond. So now we have a shape–shifter who, after a crippling chip was removed from the base of his skull, can transform once again, and is involuntarily bound to me. And not once in all this, has anybody asked his opinion. This is not a situation I plan on tolerating any longer.”

Quietly Nathan asked, “Are you sure it was involuntarily? The way the man looks at you implies that he thinks you the best thing since sliced bread. If you asked him for the moon, I believe he would run off to find a ladder.”

“You're severely exaggerating, Nathan! John might be inclined to stay with me until the bond wears off, but that doesn’t mean that I have his sympathy!”

“Whatever you say, Harold.” His best friend gave in, knowing how to choose his battles. Trying to catch up with their current situation, he switched topic. “What are Root, Shaw and Grace?”

“I think Miss Groves is amused by John. As always, she’s more concerned with the machine, than potential assets to our team. Miss Shaw is surprisingly agreeable of having another shifter in her domain. She was the one who removed his chip. Her care for him was outstanding. And Grace …” he sighed. “Well, you know her.”

Smiling, Nathan mused, “She’s smitten with him, isn’t she?”

“She’s currently redecorating the second guest–room to fit his needs.”

“And what about him … John, I mean.”

Recalling the distress of the shifter, regarding his physical reaction to Grace’s proximity, Harold pondered, “I think he would worship the ground she walks on, were he not so afraid to 'barge into my territory'.”

“Grace is your ‘territory’?” Nathan chuckled.

“She is from his point of view,” Harold sighed, unwilling to admit how much the thought disturbed him. “Though I tried to explain that Grace belongs only to herself, John still seems … somewhat tense … when in the same room with her and me.”

“Beware, Harold,” his friend teased, “there might be a younger, attractive shifter after your girl.”

“If Grace could be as easily swayed in her affection, I would not have asked her to marry me.” Harold snipped.

At that Nathan’s gaze turned soft. “No, you’re right of course. Grace is an amazing woman who loves you with all her heart. I’m sorry for teasing you.”

“It’s alright,” Harold mumbled, taking off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “I’m just tired and all of this came quite unexpected. I think we all must catch up with the situation and decide where to go from here. John Reese might be a problem. I just haven’t decided how to solve it yet.”

That very moment, the man in question appeared in the doorway. Were he in animal form, Harold was convinced that his ears and tail would be drooped. As it was, John merely felt … dejected. Barely audible, gazing at the floor, he informed them, “Miss Groves and Shaw are on their way back. And Grace called and asked if we … if you wanted to join her for dinner, Harold. I could … with Nathan around, I could go with him if you want.”

Looking at his best friend, with raised eyebrows, Nathan passed John by, patting his shoulder. “I think I’ll leave the two of you to this discussion. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harold.”

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The unease from the shifter was apparent not only in his posture but also in the emotions he radiated with frightening intensity. Still, Harold couldn’t make heads nor tail of his offer. “Do you want to stay with Nathan, now that he is back?”

Still avoiding his anchor’s eyes, John shook his head.

Stepping closer, Harold inquired, “Then why did you suggest it?”

“Because … I don’t want to be a burden to you.” John explained, reluctantly lifting his face, when Harold prompted, “Please look at me when we’re talking.”

“I know that I’m not exactly the kind of person you want to be associated with. I have done horrible things in the past. Though I only acted on orders, it was still me who pulled the trigger or ripped throats out. I’m a killer, mas… Harold and I understand if you don’t want me.”

Closing his eyes, counting to ten … in Latin … Harold gently prompted, “Please come with me.”

Obediently John trailed after him, back to the monitors. With swift keystrokes Harold called forth files from the depth of his system, offering the second chair.

Samantha Groves and Indigo Five Alpha looked back at John and immediately the shifter was submerged in their records. An hour later, after he had clicked through every data set available, he gazed back at Harold, who had patiently hovered by his side. John didn’t know what to say. Root had been a cold-blooded killer, not even working for the government but as a free–lancer and Shaw … Indigo Five Alpha … her ISA file was impressive. She had a history and a body count comparable to John’s.

“I don’t understand.” He admitted weakly, because after everything he had seen and heard, he had thought these individuals good people. They were helping civilians. How did all this fit?

Harold gave a tiny shrug, “It is as I said: this is not a job, it is our purpose. Miss Groves believes in our cause beyond the shadow of doubt and would do anything for us. She had to adapt her ways for us to be able to work together, but Nathan and I have become considerably more successful in saving our numbers after she had joined us. Miss Shaw was slightly harder to convince. Her world was black or white, there were no shades of grey, where people could be good at heart, but forced into difficult situations despite their best intentions. She too adapted.”

With a tiny smile, he added, “Of course it helped that she found a new anchor in Root. And Nathan and me … we started this after 9–11. We saw the towers fall and … and we simply had to do something. It became so much more than we could have ever imagined and I must admit that we … me in particular, have made some wrong choices along the way. But we try our very best to make up for that.”

“Why do you call your targets ‘irrelevant’.”

Closing his eyes against the rising pain that came with the cold reality of government work, Harold admitted, “Because they are not relevant to national security.”

Shaking his head, John wanted to know, “Then why care about them at all? You have day–jobs, several in fact. Why burden yourself with all this?”

“Because everybody is relevant to someone. I needed a catastrophe that nearly killed my best friend, to see that. But once I understood, I could no longer ignore this simple truth. Nathan was the one who started our work, in the end, he was the one who made the right choices.”

“And now you don’t know where to fit me into this.”

“That about sums up the problem." Harold confirmed. "You have a right to choose, because shifter or not, you still are a person. But after learning so much about all of this, I have serious concerns about letting you go.”

“Who says I want to go?” John challenged, because all of this sounded too good to be true. To help people. To actually do it for a living, with an anchor who frowned upon killing. It felt like a fairy tale and in John’s experience, those never came true for him.

Harold tried to comfort the shifter, putting a warm hand on his shoulder. “I am afraid that you ca not give informed consent right now. My blood is still in your system and before a month or two has passed, I worry that our bond will force you into something you do not want. We should take this a day at a time. You think about where you want to go from here, and I will to find a way to make it happen.”

“Why?” John wanted to know.

“Because, that’s what we do: we help people. We only ever have to find the right way.”

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John's head was buzzing when he and Harold joined Grace for dinner. Though the woman inquired about his day, he responded polite but monosyllabically. Soon she left him to his thoughts. She and Harold made light conversation, before the trio returned to their house. As soon as the door was closed behind them, John asked to be excused. There was so much to think about.

In his room the furniture had changed from a more traditional, dark wood into modern designs with chrome frames and plush pillows. The bed was covered with a comforter he had seen Grace use in the living−room; there even was a dog−bed in an alcove by the window. Speechless, he turned towards Grace who had sneaked up behind him.

The woman smiled. "Since you'll be with us for a while, I thought this would be more to your liking." She then hugged him and kissed his cheek. "Sleep well, John."

Harold hadn't talked to her. Otherwise Grace would have known that Harold hadn't made plans yet to use John for their mission, to keep him around. Still, the room appeared wide and airy and John loved it. He would thank Grace for it tomorrow, after his head had stopped reeling.

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Coming down, accepting a cup of tea from Harold, Grace demanded to know, "What did you do to him?"

Surprised at her uncommonly accusing tone, he inquired, "What do you mean?"

Gesturing at the ceiling, she exclaimed, "John is completely beside himself. He barely said ten words all through dinner and now, when he saw his new furniture, he seemed close to tears. This is not 'nothing', Harold. Please, tell me what's going on."

Sighing, Harold picked up his own cup and retreated to the sofa. "We all had a long day. Full of pleasant and maybe not so pleasant revelations."

"Love, I know that you want to keep me out of this, but I don't like seeing him so bothered."

"Well, it probably started with me hacking his CIA−files." The genius began and reiterated the events of the day.

A while later, Grace summarized, "So basically he's up against the wall, facing a killer, an ex-ISA agent, a CEO whose opinion is very important to you. An anchor who's not sure what do with him, and me, a woman he feels attracted to but considers out of limits. We could just as easy include him in our lives as kick him out or simply have him killed. I would say that's enough to send everybody reeling."

"But we're on his side," Harold protested at the somewhat bleak outlook Grace insinuated for John.

"Are you sure he's aware of that?" Leaning towards her genius fiancé, who sometimes was so very clueless when it came to people, she gently patted his arm. "Harold, from what little you have just told me about John's past, he's not used to have people in his corner. I think he considers the outcome of us killing him or throwing him out much more likely than being accepted into this rag−tag team we have formed."

Harold frowned at the idea of John thinking even for a second that he was not wanted. Still, there were matters of bigger importance. "John is still bound to me. How can he make an informed decision of what he wants to do with his life if my emotions are tainting him?"

"First of all, I don't think that's how it works. And second, maybe you should share your concerns with him?" Rubbing her hands over her skirt because they got clammy when talking about unpleasant matters, Grace was grateful when Harold reached for them and started to rub her pulse−points. "There are cases, and they are all over the news as you are aware, where shifters attack their anchors. Being a bound shifter doesn't make him blind to your flaws!"

Harold of course, knew that Grace's alcoholic and occasionally abusive father had been one of these cases. His death had caused a huge scandal three decades ago. He had had an avian shifter. How he had created that bond, was something Harold did not want to think about too closely, but the bird had been Grace's companion and mother−figure. When Grace had been fifteen, Marilyn Hendricks had killed her anchor with poison. Grace had been emancipated the same year, living in a student home not far from her High School. She had never seen her 'mother' again.

"Harold, having an anchor is not like being brainwashed. John sees you as you are. You are important to him, but he is by no means, blind to your virtues and faults."

"Still," Harold dissented, "I would feel better if our bond was slightly diminished, before he makes his choice. A few weeks won't hurt anybody and when the bond lessens, he can give informed consent to either join us or leave."

"Safe, sane and consensual?"

"This is not about sex, Grace."

"It might be at some point." She contradicted. "You know that intercourse is a common method to bind a shifter to an anchor, domination and submission specifically."

Avoiding her gaze, Harold admitted, "That thought has occurred to me." Rising from the sofa, he approached the windows and looked over the park their house faced; at the couples walking by, one kissing under a tree not far from their door. Quietly he replied, "I could never … I love you. I would never be unfaithful."

"Because he's a guy?"

"Because he's not you!"

With a small, mischievous smile, that reflected in the window, Grace suggested, "We could always share …"

When Harold turned around, looking at her scandalized, and somewhat flushed, she merely kissed his cheek and suggested, "Why don't you put away the cups while I get ready for bed. I think I will slip into something a little less comfortable and a lot more revealing."

"Of course, Grace." Was the only thing he could reply, throat running dry when unbidden images of his fiancé in lingerie rose from the depth of his mind. Somehow this day was taking a turn for the better.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers:  
> Though she might not be canine or in animal form, despair had a very sharp smell Sameen didn't like. Unfortunately, John − though his posture and face were carefully neutral − radiated it in abundance. Taking pity on the hound, she crouched down beside him. "Harold is very concerned about coaxing people into doing things they don't really want to do."  
> John hoped that being quiet would prompt the other shifter to reveal more about his anchor. It worked.  
> "He's rich, filthily so, and he has a very strict moral code. People tend to fall over themselves if he slips into one of his top−dollar alias. But that's not what he wants. In this … the work we do, he needs conviction, because anything else will do. He tried to find someone who did it for the money, but it didn't work out."  
> "What do you mean, 'It didn't work out'?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few minutes later – John was ready to force some medication on Harold because the pain only seemed to get worse – Shaw and Root burst through the door. Taking in the situation, Root reached for John. "Let's get out of here, so Sameen can play doctor."  
> "No! He's in agony. I won't leave him!" John protested, evading her grip. He couldn't leave his anchor. Not like this. Shape–shifters were supposed to protect their humans. The death of an anchor often drove a shifter mad, the mere idea of losing Harold after having just found him again, was more than he could take.  
> Harold's quiet, but not less forceful command, broke through the frightened haze of his mind. "John, leave the room, please."  
> With his proverbial tail between his legs, John followed Root, resuming his pacing outside the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my schedule is slightly wacky, but I couldn't bring myself to sit down in front of my computer these last few days. The weather here in Vienna is crazy, going from -12°C to 4°C within two days. I feel like going from hibernating straight to spring tiredness. Anyway, a new chapter for you. Unbetad so if you find some irritating mistakes, please point them out.  
> Thank you and have fun :).

### Trial Phase

"This is Mr. John Rooney, my new asset manager. He will be joining me today."

With these words, John was introduced to a sharp looking woman, who sat at a table with a technical setup that rivalled NASA. If Harold’s initiation seemed strange to her, she gave no indication. She merely smiled politely and offered her hand, “I understand, Mr. Crane. Mr. Rooney, I’m Phylicia Warton, may I offer you coffee?" At John’s nod, did she approach a small kitchenet at the side.

Following Harold into a big office with a glass−table, and several TV−monitors that showed stock markets, the shape−shifter contemplated. "Is it wise to introduce me to yet another one of your aliases, if you are not even sure that you want to keep me?"

Merely raising his eyebrows, Harold replied, "Oh, I fully intend to keep you. The question is if you want to stay."

Before John could come up with a reply, his anchor had logged into his computer, sending him the company profile. Two minutes later, the secretary entered and placed a tea set at Harold's elbow and a small pot of coffee onto the couch table next to John. Afterwards she recited Mr. Crane's schedule.

Politely Harold acknowledged it before instructing, "Thank you, Phylicia, please switch the ten o'clock to the afternoon. I want to take my time to familiarize Mr. Rooney intimately with our assets before lunch."

Dotting that down on her tablet, Phylicia inquired, "I'll see to that. What about the gala on Friday? Should I extend an invitation to Mr. Ingram again?"

With a calculated smile, Harold tantalisingly looked John up and down before deciding. "No, I think Mr. Rooney will accompany me for the foreseeable future."

Swallowing around his suddenly parched throat − his ~~master~~ anchor had never looked at him with such blunt desire − John urged Harold to consider once the secretary had left. "You're aware that you make me sound like your newest boy−toy?"

Harold did not look up from his screen, but his lips twitched ever so slightly. "I'm counting on it. Now your job is to convince these people that you are more than a pretty face. Not that anybody will bother, regarding your … assets. Please prepare yourself accordingly."

Colour rising in his cheeks, John did his best to concentrate on the numbers Harold had given him and ignore the bland innuendo. People had complimented him openly in the past, but somehow it felt more intimate with Harold doing it. They had bonded by blood, being … desirable, had not even been on the table until now. Yet John could not convince himself that he hadn’t enjoyed that look. Maybe he could convince Harold that he was … that he was worth keeping, even worth renewing their bond. Maybe even by other means than blood exchange. But that was a thought for another day. If his ~~mas~~ … anchor expected from him to play a part of the asset manager today, he would do his best not to disappoint. After all, the more use he had, the higher his chances.

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The next day Shaw rudely commanded, "Get in," when passing Harold and John on the street. When his anchor didn't contradict her, John slipped into the car, but couldn't help looking at Harold in the rear−view−mirror while buckling up.

The shifter sneered, "Don't worry, pup. He's Harold Martin today. On the office floor of Wren Enterprise, you would only be in the way."

"He has three different aliases, yet stays at the same house every night. That kind of beats the purpose."

"He only stays with Grace every night because of you. Normally he would sleep in a different safe−houses every other day."

That thought didn't sit well with John: him being a danger to Harold's covers. He should address that matter, in the evening.

Shaw sighed as if his concern was a particularly hard burden to carry. "He's better at this than any of us. Don't get your tail in a twist. Harold's cautious when it comes to his aliases and even more so when it comes to Grace."

After that, they drove in silence, for a while. After about twenty minutes, John wanted to know. "Where are we going?"

"Training," was the curt reply and somehow he felt that this was the best answer he would get.

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Entering an empty warehouse at the outskirts of New York, Shaw pressed a rifle into his hand, pointing at the other end of the hall. "Shoot the bottle at the railing."

"That's a pump−gun, hardly a sniper weapon." John looked down at her, yet she only bared her teeth. "Does that mean you can't do it?"

Taking in the surroundings, the canine shifter shot an anchoring line about fifteen feet away, crashing a grappling hook into the bottle upstairs.

"Nice," she took away the weapon and gave him a pistol. It was unfamiliar but it would do. "Now hit these." Opening a box of tennis balls, she threw them at a wall by his side, bounding them off into his direction. He hit nine out of ten because she increasingly her tempo with each throw. The last one hit him on the forehead, making her abandon this test.

Obviously amused by the growing blue spot on his forehead, she pulled out a bottle of water out of an isolated container. "Here, put this one your forehead. Grace will clip my nails if I bring you back like this."

John really didn't see the need, one shift there and back would take care of the problem, still he leaned against a crate, pressing the cool bottle against his forehead after taking a sip. "I don't get it."

Unwrapping a sandwich, taking a healthy bite, Shaw rolled her eyes. "What's not to get? If we're about to work together, I want to know your mind− and skill−set. And not the crap they agency dots down."

John did his best not to appear dejected when he recalled. "Harold doesn't want me to work with you."

"He so does!" She contradicted, rummaging for a soda.

Though she might not be canine or in animal form, despair had a very sharp smell Sameen didn't like. Unfortunately, John − though forcing himself to appear composed, a trick that might have worked with humans but certainly not with her − radiated it in abundance. Taking pity on him, she crouched on the crate and explained. "Harold is very concerned about coaxing people into doing things they don't really want to do."

Shaking his head, John remained quiet, hoping that the other shifter would reveal more details about his anchor.

"He's filthily rich and he has a very strict moral code. People tend to fall over themselves if he slips into one of his top−dollar alias. But that's not what he wants. This … the work we do, it needs conviction, because otherwise you won't make it. He tried to find someone who did it for the money, but it didn't work out."

"What do you mean, _someone_?"

Stretching like … well, a cat, Sameen recalled. "Before he found Root, or before Root found him, they are pretty hush hush about the details, Nathan was not always around. So Harold hired a few other helper monkeys to do the legwork. He was slightly less forthcoming with them than he is with us today. He only told them about the people, about the danger they were in … or were the cause off. He offered money and a lot of it, for them to intervene. Few lasted more than a few weeks. One betrayed him. It didn't end well."

"But what does that have to do with me? Were they all shifters?"

Shrugging, Sameen rolled the sandwich wrapper into a ball, and balanced it on the back of her fingers. "I don't know. He's not a fan of sharing his past and Root says we should respect that, because from now on it's all about the future. But I think he is concerned that, if you follow him out of a biological imperative, you'll end just like the last operative. The one who died."

"What happened?" John wanted to know.

Sliding off the crate, Sameen took off her jacket and toed off her boots. "Come on, puppy. Let's run."

Obviously their game of twenty questions had just ended.

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John was covered in black and blue spots when they joined Grace for a late lunch. Sameen had been right, the woman looked quite displeased when seeing his discoloured cheek and split lip. Taking his chin in hand, she tilted his head to inspect the damage. John had to hold his breath as to not embarrass himself under her attention.

"Really, Sameen, was this necessary?"

"He'll be right as rain in the evening, promise Grace."

Feeling the need to defend her, an instinctual habit from the military because slights had been harshly punished, John mumbled, "We were just rough−housing."

"Fine," the redhead snapped, before letting go of him. John instantly mourned the loss of her warmth, though he knew that he had no right to it.

When Root slid into the booth a minute later, she took in both shifters and smiled. "You won, I'm proud of you!" She then kissed Sameen in the middle of the restaurant.

"I really think that you should not encourage them." Grace berated the other woman. "They're supposed to learn how to work together, not fight tooth and nail."

"You should see the state of my back after a lazy weekend," Root wiggled her eyebrows, grinning deviously.

"Grace," John gingerly touched her thigh, quickly snatching back his hand when he realized how inappropriate that was. "I'll be alright in the evening, I promise."

"Fine," she repeated with a dejected sigh. "I still don't like it."

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The next few weeks were filled with John learning about Harold's most important alias; memorizing the entire setup of the library, weapon stacks and surveillance systems included and exhausting training hours with Root and Shaw. John realized that what Harold and Nathan were doing, flew right over his head, but still, the more he learned about their group, the more he wanted to be a part of it.

Root and Shaw were vicious. Nathan was obsessed with the numbers, willing to take risks to save them but worked at IFT most of the time. Harold was the cautious one, calculating modus operandi with as few risks as possible. Understandable if you considered that Shaw was shot twice in a three−week period. And though Grace was kept as far away as possible from the library and everything it entailed, she seemed to be the heart of this little ragtag family. Everyone adored her and wanted her approval, even Shaw though she rarely acted like it.

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After two more weeks, John felt the bond with Harold waning. The harder it became for him to reach for his anchor, the tighter the knot in his stomach grew. Soon the billionaire could send him away without any ill effects. John could leave and start a new life. Harold had even inquired about his preference in domicile and name. The man had several new identities in the making. All of them well funded and self−sustaining.

Grace was the complete opposite. Where Harold worked on numerous contingency plans John would need when he left them, Grace tried to learn about his favourite colour and plants. She even tried to interest him in modern art. Pictures would make his room homier, she had explained. Clearly, Grace wanted him to stay and it tore John apart that Harold obviously did not share the sentiment. He could barely feel the man's emotions any longer. Only when they were very strong did they still transmit. Regrettably, Harold had impeccable self−control so these moments were farther and further in-between.

When the fifth week after the removal of the chip started, John knew that his time with Harold and Grace was nearly at an end. His barely there anchor threw him concerned looks whenever he thought John wasn't watching and Grace drew back more and more each day, as if him leaving was inevitable. Well, if Harold didn't want him, John guessed it was. He had already packed a bag, though he kept it hidden in his wardrobe. He had money and two guns he had snatched from Shaw, as well as one of the passports Harold had created. He just needed to find the right moment. The moment where he could sever all ties and start a new life without putting anybody in danger.

 

 

### Blood

Since Grace hadn’t returned from work last night, Harold decided that he and John would 'kidnap' her for lunch. Though clearly busy, the woman relented to their pestering and followed them with a smile. While enjoying a delicious salad with grilled chicken, she shared the state of the preparations of her next exhibition. As always, she talked so animated, underlying her enthusiastic descriptions of the objects, that were about to be put on display, with wide gestured that made both Harold and John smile.

He would miss her, as much as Harold, the shape–shifter knew. While Harold was a stable anchor, Grace was like the sun they both revolved around. Simply being close to her, made everybody feel warm and happy. Not even Shaw could resist her charms. John had observed, on more than one occasion, that the woman had shifted and claimed a place on Grace’s lap during movie nights. John had yearned to do that as well. In the end, however, he hadn’t dared; too concerned that the red–head would flinch back from his imposing animal form. Sure, she had given him a shower and petted him in the beginning, but she hadn’t known him to be a shifter then. The animal form of a shape−shifter was infinitely more dangerous than a 'normal' pet.

On their way, back from the museum, John and Harold passed a public phone that started ringing out of the blue. Harold answered and dotted down some numbers before calling for a cab. They parked a mere block from the library, closer than usual, and once inside the human got lost in research.

This was it, John realized. With Harold distracted this was his chance to slip away. It would be easier for everybody involved, because John really couldn’t bring himself to face rejection again, even if Harold and Grace certainly would be nice about it, giving token protests about his departure. He had brought his bag with the money, the weapons and the passports to the library, two days ago. So, all he had to do now, was pick it up and leave. The faintest trace of dread, transmitted via the bond, however, made him hesitate. Approaching Harold, he realized that he was calling for his business partners, but all were indisposed. Finally, the man turned around. It was as if the mere picture of John pained him, since he closed his eyes briefly when taking him in.

“I’m sorry, John.” He started, “I was determined to accept your decision, but I have to ask one last thing of you, a chance to convince you to stay. There is a young woman in danger. Her name is Patricia Williams. Please, help me save her.” Offering a mobile and an earpiece, Harold looked at him imploring.

The request didn’t make sense, since John staying or leaving had not been his decision in the first place. Harold was the one who wanted their bond to vanish, to no longer have him around. But none of this mattered any longer. Not if someone was in danger. Accepting the equipment, John made sure that he had a loaded weapon and left the sanctuary without his emergency–bag.

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Patricia Williams turned out to be their victim. Her minor gambling addiction manifested, in her playing Lotto every Wednesday and Saturday. Her girlfriend Sarah Tomlin – buried in debts from university, her apartment and life–support costs – had found her winning ticket and was ready to kill her over it. She had even gone so far as to hold Patricia hostage to guarantee a safe escape.

It was petty and barely worth the effort, in John’s opinion, since Patricia hadn’t even won the Jackpot but only second prize. Still, with a pool of nearly 3 million dollars, the winnings were more than 200.000 dollars. The ex-agent was ready to kneecap the girl and call it a day, when Harold appeared beside him out of the blue, carrying a non–descriptive case that could only contain money. In an attempt to sooth Sarah, he prompted, “Please, Miss Tomlin, put down the weapon. If it’s money you want, I can give it to you. All you have to do is let Miss Williams go!”

“You’re lying,” the girl replied with a heavy sob. “Nobody gives money away for free.”

“I can assure you, if the life of a person is on the line, I’m inclined to make an exception. Please, let me show you.”

Though John felt the need to hold Harold back, after a pleading look from the billionaire, he stepped out of his way and allowed the man to put the case on the floor and open it. As John had expected, it was filled with small notes in non–consecutive order. “Just hand over your weapon and the money is yours.”

Seduced by the siren’s song of the cash, Sarah tried to reach the case. Since she still wouldn’t let go of Patricia’s arm, she overbalanced and tripping over her girlfriends – now ex−girlfriend’s – feet. The shot that came loose echoed through the room. The answering shot from John was barely audible, over him leaping between the girls and Harold. With a painful cry, Sarah Tomlin’s knees gave away. All business, the shifter shoved back the money and reached for Patricia Williams to get her out of the hot zone.

Harold’s voice barely shook when he called detective Fusco for backup and within moments they had collected the victim and the money, before slipping out through a side–door. Patricia Williams hugged both him and John, with tears streaming down her face, thanking them repeatedly. But the shifter didn’t allow them to linger, instead called for a cap and sent the girl on her way.

Pulling Harold into a restaurant around the corner, guiding him to the toilets, despite the man’s protests. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Reese. There is no need to become so frantic.”

Clenching his teeth, John contradicted, “You forget that I am a shifter. I can smell your blood.”

With a sigh, Harold allowed the younger man to relieve him of his jacket, only swallowing down a pained nose once, when it slipped down his shoulder. Blood was tickling out of the wound, colouring his grey–shirt crimson. John seemed hypnotized by the liquid, pressing against the wound ever so slightly, studying his fingers mesmerized, when they came back red.

This was it, he realized. This was his chance to forge another bond, at least for a few more weeks. He would be Harold's again, without a chance for the human to send him away. Harold was no match for him right now, wounded and weakened by the shock. At least that’s what John thought, when he lifted his fingers to his lips. An iron–grip around his wrist kept him from closing the distance. With an involuntary whine, he looked at Harold. Why didn’t the human allow him this small mercy? John would find means as to not get into his way. He just wanted to stay … to not be alone again.

In the military, he had switched masters when the mission had demanded it. Every single person he had submitted to, had been eager and willingly taken what John had been forced to offer. He had never wanted any of them, not really. It was just his luck that now, that he had found an anchor he could trust, the person in question did not want him. John wondered if sinking to his knees begging would change anything. Somehow, he doubted that Harold could be swayed, if he wasn’t convinced that what he did was right.

He was not prepared for the explanation, as to why the man didn’t allow him to consume his blood and strengthen their barely there bond once again. “That’s blood from a bullet wound, I’ve suffered in a less than clean environment. I don’t want you to consume that.”

Still, John was eyeing his smeared fingertips with longing, but he didn’t dare to contradict Harold. It would only hurt his chances. “I want it anyway. Please, let me stay.”

It was humiliating … having to beg. Even though John was no stranger to humiliation, this somehow felt more intimate, more real since for the first time he was begging for something not out of obligation, but because he wanted it with every fibre of his being. With Harold, John was more vulnerable than ever. Not even the times when Kara had worked out her frustration on him with lashes or harsh words, had hurt him as deep as this man’s rejection. Feeling small and unwanted, the shifter barely understood what was happening, when Harold let go of his hand, and gently touched his arm. “I would like nothing better than for you to stay with us, John. This last month was for you, so you could decide uninfluenced, if you are able to adopt our purpose.”

“I don’t understand. You called me a 'problem'. That’s what you told Nathan the day he returned from Hong Kong. You’re a private person and resent having anybody barge into your life uninvited.” John stammered, unable to believe that Harold honestly wanted him.

Drily, Harold replied, “You’re hardly ‘anybody’." Shaking his head, careful not to jostle his shoulder, the man prompted, "Please, wash off the blood."

Closing his eyes defeated, John did as he was told. Putting pressure on the wound, he helped Harold back into his jacket, before making his way to the library. After contacting Shaw, they retreated to the impromptu infirmary, the feline shifter had created on the upper level. John anxiously paced around the human who sat down on the examination bed, looking paler with every minute. "Do you want pain−killers?"

Forcing himself to breath evenly, Harold replied, "I doubt that drugs would be conductive to any procedure Miss Shaw might have to perform. The bullet still has to be removed." Watching John pacing, he inquired, "Why are you so agitated?"

"Because you are wounded." The shifter spat out. "Because I’m a problem to you. Because you didn't want me. And a few minutes ago, out of the blue, you told me that I can chose to stay. I …"

Softly, Harold corrected him, "I never said that I did not want you. Not after learning what you are."

"So you do want a shifter, just not one bound to you. Whom do you want to hand me off to, Nathan … Root? I doubt that this will go over well." John was aware that he sounded resentful and bitter. But after everything he had been through, his head was still spinning from the contradicting information.

"John?" The human's soft voice, halted the shifter's pacing. "What I want is someone, with abilities and convictions as extraordinary as yours, believing in what we do and following us out of his own free will; not because of a biological imperative. You have a choice. I'm afraid that this choice is taken from you, if you bond with me again. You have a home with Grace and me, and you can decide with whom you want to form a bond. But these choices should be yours and nobody has a right to put any pressure on you. Least of all me."

"So, you …," John stammered, as if trying the words for size, because they sounded so absurd. "You did all of this to protect me? To keep me from being forced into a decision, unrelated to what you desire?"

"Of course, why else would I wait for our bond to diminish before asking you to stay?"

But that didn't make sense. John had served people all his life. People with limitless power. People with barely any. Nobody, he had ever met had been this altruistic. Harold was an extraordinary person, exceeded only by Grace. The shifter was on his knees in front of Harold before he could think this through. His animal, as well as his human side agreed, that this man was the only anchor worth belonging to. If Harold would have him. Pressing his forehead to the man's knees he whispered, "I chose you, please Harold. Let me have this. A purpose and an anchor I believe in."

"Of course," A barely there caress soothed John's agitation, and for a few moments, neither said a word. Then Harold prompted, "Please, get me one of the scalpels from the cupboard.

Obeying instantly, the shifter fetched the tool, yet his breath caught when Harold rolled up his sleeve and made a small incision at the side of his arm. Though the cut was clean and precise, John nearly felt sick when he saw the flesh parting and the blood welling up. Gently, Harold prompted, "This is clean. If you really want to be bound to me, I would be honoured."

John's lips closed over the wound in a heartbeat. Reaching for a clean cloth he covered it the moment he pulled back, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. He bandaged the minor injury, yet staggered when the blood hit his system. As an animal, his instincts had merely realigned. As a human, it was different. He could sense every emotion. Even the edges of Harold's thoughts where overwhelming, when the bond snapped back in place. John knew that the telepathic link would die away soon, no anchor had ever given him free reign over their thoughts. Right now, however, in the early stages, he saw everything, felt everything, knew everything. After but a few moments, John was overwhelmed by the pain that filled his master's mind. It was excruciating and the shifter wondered how the human was not whittling on the ground, screaming. How could Harold sit so still and merely endure? John knew battle−hardened soldiers who would break under so much duress.

"Harold, please, there has to be something. I'm sure Shaw has some of the good stuff lying around here somewhere. Let me get it for you."

"That would not be conductive to her diagnose."

A few minutes later – John was ready to force some medication on Harold because the pain only seemed to get worse – Shaw and Root burst through the door. Taking in the situation, Root reached for John. "Let's get out of here, so Sameen can play doctor."

"No! He's in agony. I won't leave him!" John protested, evading her grip. He couldn't leave his anchor. Not like this. Shape–shifters were supposed to protect their humans. The death of an anchor often drove a shifter mad, the mere idea of losing Harold after having just found him again, was more than he could take.

Harold's quiet, but not less forceful command, broke through the frightened haze of his mind. "John, leave the room, please."

With his proverbial tail between his legs, John followed Root, resuming his pacing outside the infirmary.

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Cleaning her hand's, putting on gloves, Shaw berated, "We leave you alone with him for one day, and he gets you shot. Bad pup!"

Clenching his teeth while removing his jacket and dress−shirt, Harold opposed, "It was hardly John's fault, that a gun was involved in our latest number's situation."

"He could have thrown himself between you and the bullet. I would do it for Root in a heartbeat."

"First, I would never expect that of him. And second, he didn't really get the chance." Watching the syringe Shaw prepared, he stated, "May I remind you that I'm not particularly fond of anaesthesia." Though the pain made him sweat already, he had never particularly liked his senses getting stolen from him.

"I'm aware. This is lidocaine." Was the dry reply.

Watching the opposing wall, Harold relaxed somewhat, letting the shifter inject him. After a moment, he swayed on the bed, losing consciousness.

Guiding him down, Shaw stated, unrepentant, "Oops, I lied," before calling out. "Root, get the puppy in here and wash your hands. We have to get the bullet out of Harold."

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"You put me to sleep." Harold slurred, forcing his eyes open.

"I did," Shaw confirmed unrepentant, checking his bandage. "You had a bullet in your body. And Grace gave me a card blanche when it comes to your care."

The woman in question rose from her seat, drawing attention to the fact that she was holding Harold's minorly injured hand. "I don't like you being in pain, Harold. You have to let Sameen take care of you. If she considers an anaesthetic the right choice, she will give it to you!"

Kissing her hand, smiling tiredly, Harold nodded, "As you wish, Grace," before nodding off again.

Gesturing at the black dog, who lay curled up on the floor, on the other side of the hospital bed, Shaw wanted to know, "What do you plan to do with him?"

"Nothing," Grace replied. "It's his decision if he leaves or stays with us."

"You noticed his bags?"

"Harold added credit cards, under the respective alias, to all of them. If John decides that he wants to leave, at least he won’t have to worry about money."

Surprised, Shaw inquired, "And you're okay with that?"

Taking in the twitching shifter, who had finally succumbed to sleep an hour prior, the woman shook her head, "No, of course not. I would prefer him close. But that's not my choice to make. Harold is right. He is a person and has the right to choose his own path. I have a feeling that he hasn't had that opportunity in a long time."

Sighing, Shaw briefly rubbed over Grace's shoulder, promising, "I'll help Root to carry up one of the armchairs and a few blankets. Otherwise you two will get cold while sleeping here."

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John jerked up, looking around frantically, searching for threats. But all he could see was the hospital bed that hosted his ~~master~~ anchor. He could also smell Grace, who had just entered with a cup of tea and a bowl of water. Setting the bowl down beside him, she asked, "Want to take a quick walk through the park?"

He gazed at Harold, but realized that he had to heed the call of nature. Of course, he could shift back, but somehow, he felt too cowered to discuss his failure with Grace. He was Harold's now, he was supposed to take care of him, not get him shot. Though Grace didn't seem angry, he couldn't get a clear scent because the disinfectants played havoc on his senses. So, he meekly trotted after her, fetching his lash on their way out.

It was late afternoon when they left the library. Grace was quiet on her way to the park, toying with the lash she had slung over her neck. She didn't even clip him in, trusting that he would not run off. John wondered if this trust extended to other parts of her life as well. He didn't feel like he deserved it, any of it in fact. Even after getting shot on John's watch, Harold had offered him a renewal of the bond. Grace had spread out a blanket on the floor, so he could rest a little easier. Why were these people taking such good care of him?

Harold knew about his past, about everything he had done. He hadn't shared the details with his fiancé, John doubted that Grace would stay by his side as calm and collected, if she realized the horrors he had committed in his past. They would have to talk about this. The last thing the shifter wanted was for her to be afraid of him, but he couldn't hide that part of his nature. He had been trained for combat, for covert operations, he wasn't a good man. But maybe he could be a good dog and that would be enough. An animal couldn't wield a weapon. Most of the time, growling deterred people from attacking, sufficiently.

Carefully guiding her through the masses of people, John bounded over a meadow to relief himself, once he knew Grace safe on a bench at the side of the dog−park. It might be humiliating to go there, but this way she didn't have to pick up after him. Once he returned, he found her watching him. There was no judgement on her face, but there was something. So, he sank down in front of her, hesitant, waiting …

"You bonded with him again, didn't you?" Not expecting an answer, she continued, "I was the cut on his arm. It was too clean to be anything but self−inflicted and there could be only one reason for him to draw blood." Sighing, she looked at the other people, people who just walked by, people who threw sticks for their own pets, playing without a care in the world. Sometimes she wondered how her life would be if she were one of them. Caring about nothing but her art. But then, she wouldn't have Harold in her life, or Nathan, Root or Shaw. In a way, this was easier. Aware of the darkness that lived within most people, Grace had also learned that someone was trying to bring out the light.

"I hope this means that you are staying. Harold thinks you one of a kind. Suited for the kind of work they do. Though I trust him, I wonder why you had to prepare your stashes. The money, the weapons and the passports. Don't you trust us?"

At Grace’s dejected question, John could only whine and nuzzle into her hand. Of course, he trusted them. He just hadn't believed that they wanted him. Especially not with Harold's insistence to wait out the bond. Her fingers scratching his neck, were soothing and invigorating at the same time. Quietly, so her voice wouldn't be carried past their immediate surroundings, she added, "Harold doesn't trust easy. The fact that he allows you to stay with us, showed you the library … you don't know what that means. I do. And I …," looking down at her hands, Grace seemed to fight with herself. Drawing back her hands she finally looked him in the eye. "If you betray that trust, I will make sure that you can't even regret it. I know that I'm no danger to you, but Nathan will be, and Samantha can be and Sameen most definitely is."

Were he in human form, John would have smiled. Grace was this good person at heart, caring and sympathetic to every plight. She never judged anybody, always tried to help. For her to resort to such violent threats, she had to be dead serious. It had happened before. Harold had trusted someone, only a little, but had been betrayed. His family was not willing to let him suffer through that again. To communicate his sympathy, John lay down on the ground and showed his unprotected belly. If he betrayed Harold's trust, he would put the blade into Sameen's hands himself, allowing her to gut him. He deserved nothing less.

Watching this sign of trust, Grace nodded and rose from her bench. "Alright. Let's go and find dinner. Hopefully Harold will wake up and eat. Sameen knocked him out pretty well."

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Harold was indeed awake when they returned, arguing with Root that he was perfectly fine, demanding his laptop. Grace put an end to that discussion. "We brought dinner, let’s eat!"

After they had all gathered in the infirmary, she distributed the meal, offering some raw meat for John who tore into it eagerly. Once everything was cleaned away, she fetched Sense and Sensibility. Harold seemed ready to protest about being read to, but stopped when Grace started. For more than an hour, her soft, melodic voice carried though the room. When Harold started yawning, she instructed, "Let's get you freshened up and then we can go to sleep."

"Really," he protested, "there is no use in keeping me here. It was just a single bullet to the shoulder. I'm sure I will be perfectly fine at home."

"And I'll believe that, when Sameen tells me so." Grace contradicted, leading an unsteady Harold to the bathroom.

When they emerged again, both wore pyjamas and Grace pushed the armchair closer to the bed. Concerned, Harold inquired, "I doubt that you will be comfortable sleeping there."

"I don't plan to." She smiled, gesturing for John to hop on. "John will sleep here, just within reach. The two of us will share the bed."

That seemed to appease Harold a great deal, because without protest he slipped under the covers. Once he had Grace in his arms, he reached out to John. Gently nudging his fingers the shifter curled up on the chair.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She should wait for Harold. He was John's anchor. But the blind panic she had noticed on John's face wouldn't leave her. She had to do something to soothe the agitated shifter. So, she turned off the stove and climbed the stairs. Knocking at his door, she called out for him. "John? John, are you alright? Please, can I come in?"  
> She waited for a whole minute. When no reply came, she cautiously opened the door. The shower he shared with the second guestroom was running, so she knocked on the bathroom−door as well. "John, are you hurt? Please, talk to me."  
> The splashing of the water changed its pattern and after a moment, the shifter called out to her in a strangled voice. "Please, Grace, go away. I'm begging you!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and earth lost all meaning while the three found their rhythm. Sometimes faster, sometimes slower, but always more intense any of the three had ever experienced. It was like Harold and Grace had waited for this, for John all their lives, because he was the missing piece that would complete their family. And John … this didn't feel like sex, it felt like making love, a sensation he had been sure he had lost with giving up Jessica. But Harold's encouraging murmurs about how good he was, Grace's verbal caresses that praised his body, his poise, everything about him, it was all he had ever wanted but had never thought he could have again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbetad. Thank you, kiranovember, for pointing out a few mistakes in the last chapter. It's greatly appreciated.  
> Beware of the spoiler at the end of this chapter. I really couldn't resist. Chapter 8 was so much fun to write ;):

### In Heat

After accepting his new ‘purpose’, working with Root and Shaw became easier. It was as if they had only held back for Harold’s sake, accepting John easily now that he was an asset to their team. Still, more often than not John went out alone, leaving the women to their own devices. He liked it that way, with only Harold in his ear, guarding those who couldn’t protect themselves. It was strange for him to hit kneecaps instead of foreheads and to have people hug him afterwards but he tried not to flinch back and bask in their gratitude. Still, nothing was better than having Harold smile at him after returning to the library. Nobody had ever complimented him for a job well done but his new anchor did and it made John make even more of an effort for him.

He was tempted sometimes, to punish those who deserved it, since they wanted to take a human life out of petty reasons. Money he could understand, people did everything for money. Or love, wars had been fought over women who had belonged to other man. But planning on hurting someone because their number had been passed over at work, such motivation John couldn’t understand. Or someone’s dog constantly pooping on the neighbour’s porch, prompting violent retaliation … such motives really were beyond him. There were inconveniences, no doubt, but the shifter couldn't understand the violent repercussions these people planned to dish out. He had his own way of dealing with them. The ignored employee was found with his pants down, in his superior’s office. The neighbour got shot through the hand because he had dished out animal abuse, enraging their perpetrator to the point of violence.

The humiliation of the employee Finch had approved whole heartedly, saving a picture of the team–leader entering his office the next morning. John found it with his change of clothes and pinned it to the inside of his wardrobe. While his new job was fulfilling, he needed these little moments where justice had been served, to remind himself that not all people were vicious and cruel. And he saw plenty cruel now. While on assignments for the military or CIA, nobody had cared about the trivial acts people aggravated each other with. His missions had all been about national security. Now he learned that the little things sometimes could be even more upsetting than being shot. When someone put a bullet through your body it was rarely personal. Both parties involved were merely doing their job. But neighbours poisoning each other’s animals. Employees stealing each other’s work, those were new torments, John had not been prepared for.

Usually, after a job, there was dinner with Grace and Harold and a quiet evening at home. Sometimes the humans attended an event, leaving him to entertain himself. He enjoyed being with Grace and Harold, but he cherished these evenings alone, where he could care for his arsenal and watch trash movies that nobody but him could tolerate, just as much. It was as if he had finally found balance.

At times Root and Shaw invited him to a club. They got trashed and in the early morning hours, Root usually passed out on her couch while he and Shaw curled up on the floor beside her. It was fun in a way he hadn’t known for nearly a decade. With Jessica, everything had been soft and gentle. She had been a pure soul and while intoxication was acceptable, she had not been one to party wild. She also hadn’t understood that after 9–11 John simply couldn’t stay home. It had hurt to break the bond between them, allow a non–descriptive lieutenant to overwrite it and prepare him for his first mission. While chasing terrorists had been somewhat of a comfort, it hadn’t compared to this.  A place where people saw to his needs both for tranquillity as well as going wild.

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The first green leaves and hesitant blossoms washed away the gloom of the winter when John, bundled up in his coat, was watching the Celestial Elementary School. Katrina Goldsteen had received a threatening e–Mail. Yet all Finch, as they had agreed to call Harold in the field, had been able to find, was that it had originated from an internet café around the corner. Apparently, there was a problem with bullying in this school. But since they hadn’t been able to get in undercover, they had to wait and learn.

When Shaw stepped out on the roof, John could barely supress a sigh. The two of them had been roughhousing these last few days, and while it was fun now and then, he wasn’t looking forward to yet another meaningless confrontation. Shaw however acted quite unexpectedly. With a sub–vocal purr, she slid under John’s arms and took his binoculars that still dangled around his neck. Leaning against the railing, she pressed his backside against his crotch, wiggling to get comfortable.

Since John was flesh and blood her movement had him stir in his trousers. Yet when he stepped back, Shaw followed, looking up with heat in her eyes. “The school isn’t over for another hour. Wanna have some fun, pup?”

“Harold,” he choked out, barely remaining on his feet when Shaw wrapped her legs around him and rubbed her face all over his neck. “Get Root here asap.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Reese? Miss Shaw should be with you any minute.”

“She’s already here. Please, someone needs to pick her up.”

Nipping at John’s earlobe she insisted, “You should pick me up, puppy. I’m perfectly fine with you here.”

“Oh.” The weak answer over the com indicated that Harold had just caught up with the situation. “I’ll do my very best to have someone retrieve her. Please keep her from committing acts of public indecency again.”

“Again?” John growled, barely able to keep the feline shifter from ripping open his shirt. “Did this happen before?”

“Regrettably,” the billionaire replied shortly, before muting their connection.

Trying to get a grip on the woman’s hands, John reminded her, “Come on, Shaw, you don’t even like me.”

“Who says that I have to like you to have you fuck me?” She purred, licking at his Adam’s apple, making him groan. While this was technically true, and John had had contact with female shifters during their heats in the past, it was not something he particularly cared for. In this ragtag family, he would mess up the dynamics if he fucked Shaw on a rooftop in Manhattan. Once out of her heat, she would claw his eyes out and Root, quite proprietorial, would most likely castrate him.

He concentrated on that thought, trying to stay dressed and fight off Shaw’s advances without hurting her. She did not make it easy. He was immensely grateful when Lionel entered the roof.

“Oh, drat.” The cop sighed. “Well, at least you’re still dressed. Harold wasn’t that lucky last time.”

“Mister Fusco!” The man in question broadcasted, “this is hardly the topic for now. Would you please get Miss Shaw home. Miss Groves will meet you there.”

“Fine, fine, don’t get your tie in a twist, glasses.” Lionel replied, trying to pry Shaw off of John. “Come on, Sameen, don’t make this hard on me. We both know he’s not the one you want.”

With surprising ease, she let go, turning towards the detective. “You’re right of course. But for now, I will settle for second best!” Before wrapping herself around him. John expected him to fight her off as well, but instead the man wrapped his arms around her, scratching her neck. “Why don’t you change sweetheart and I’ll get you to Root. Can you do that for me?”

Still rubbing herself all over the human, Shaw shrunk and within a moment Lionel had his hands full of Persian cat.

“I thought Root was her anchor.” John pondered, not understanding how the human had commanded the shifter so easily.

“She is,” Lionel replied, peeling the cat out of her clothing, careful to hold her close. “Get her clothes. Not that she will need them. But she really likes those boots.” And as fast as he had come the detective vanished again.

“Miss Goldsteen just finished her last class. She should be out shortly.”

Finch’s update brought John back to the present. They still had a number to safe. So, he gathered his and Shaw’s things haphazardly and left the roof to be able to pursue her.

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A day later Lionel put a parent, whose daughter had made a suicide attempt, in custody. The man had tried to shoot the teacher, though she really was not the one to blame. In fact, she had filed various reports with the administration, requesting a psychologist for a project to improve the climate in her class. Yet she had been shut down repeatedly. Harold organized a job interview with a renowned private school, and within two days this case was wrapped up.

When investigating a group of weapon smugglers Shaw caught up with John again, pushing a sandwich and a thermos of coffee at him. Then she wordlessly claimed the lookout post. Inhaling the rich scent, he took a sip, savouring the warmth. “Thank you.”

Grumpily she replied, “Likewise.”

And that was it. Back to normal and neither of them was worse for wear.

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Being held up at one of his alias was not uncommon for Harold. It was unusual however, for him not to be home in time to greet Grace, when she returned from her business trip to Italy. Her next exhibition was coming around nicely, but sometimes talking to other curators in person went a long way in securing a special piece. John, who had tailed a number the entire day before, wrapping it up just an hour earlier, returned home, the blood of their 'would be killer' still streaking his nose. He wanted nothing more than to wash off the stench. Yet when he found Grace in the lobby, struggling with groceries, he supported her to put them away.

She immediately set out to cook dinner, all glowing from her experience, sharing the details of her trip. After the violence of his day−job, it was soothing to listen to her when she talked about art. It was like seeing the world through her eyes, where everything was beautiful. When she set out to handle the meat she had brought, he excused himself for a quick shower. The last thing he wanted was to contaminate their food.

When he returned, he noticed that Grace had ditched her signature cardigan, allowing John to watch her enticing figure from behind. She was all subtle curves and hidden waist. He wanted to hug her, trail his hands over her body, to feel for himself what she was hiding beneath her clothes. Shaking himself out of these inappropriate thoughts, he approached her again. "How can I help?"

"Oh, John," she startled then chuckled when spotting him. "Sorry, I was lost in my own mind. Could you debone the meat, please? I'll clean the vegetables. Everything should go into the oven for about an hour. That will give us plenty of time for the side dishes. I thought about dumplings with the roast. What do you think?"

"Dumplings sound delicious." He replied with a low voice. "You want to make them from scratch?"

Laughing the woman shook her head. "No, I never get them right. I brought a package, we'll just need to add water and salt."

Leaning over him, she opened a cupboard to retrieve a bowl, giving John the chance to get a good whiff of her. The shifter groaned and buried his face in her neck, licking over her delicate skin. She was delicious. Instinctively John made room for her in front of him, willing her to come closer. He wanted to hug her, pull her in, burry his face in her lap because he knew her scent would be strongest there. He swayed slightly when plastering himself to her back.

Grace, however, did not become pliant as expected. She didn't fight him, but got very still. "John," she asked in a soft voice. "Not that I'm complaining, but what are you doing?"

Pushing back his animal instincts, John flinched as if she had slapped him. He turned an unhealthy shade of white when Grace turned around. He started to move his head from one side to the other, like an animal trapped in a hopeless situation. After a moment, his entire body started trembling. He forced out a choked, "I'm sorry. Oh, my god, Grace, I'm so sorry."

When she reached for him, concerned about his reaction, he pulled back even further, nearly tripping over the counter that separated kitchen and dining room. "I can't … please … I …" Then he fled the scene.

Puzzled, Grace pulled out her mobile. "Harold?"

"No, I'm sorry. This is Grace Gordon, I work with Mr. Rooney. Could you please have Mr. Crane call me back, it's urgent?

"Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you, Miss Warton, have a nice evening."

She should wait for Harold. He was John's anchor. But the blind panic she had seen on John's face wouldn't leave her. She had to do something to soothe the agitated shifter. So, she turned off the stove and climbed the stairs. Knocking on his door, she called out for him. "John? John, are you alright? Please, can I come in?"

She waited for a whole minute. When no reply came, she cautiously opened the door. The shower he shared with the second guestroom was running, so she knocked on the bathroom−door as well. "John, are you hurt? Please, talk to me."

The splashing of the water changed its pattern and after a moment, the shifter called out to her in a strangled voice. "Grace, go away. I'm begging you!"

Startled, the woman pulled back. 'Begging her'? John was not the type to beg for anything. He was strong and determined and infinitely caring. He didn't deserve to be reduced to this. She took half a step back, uncertain of how to proceed. "I'll be in the kitchen … alright? If you need anything, please just call me."

Then she retreated, not knowing what to do. Switching on the stove again, she returned to her preparations. Dinner would certainly be nice at some point and cooking soothed her. Grace was infinitely grateful when her phone rang. "Harold?"

"I'm on my way," was all Mr. Crane replied. He waited for two seconds and then hung up.

Feeling better knowing that Harold would help her handle this situation, she started on the dumplings, rolling the doe between her wet hands. This was not as good as painting, but at least eased her a little.

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When Harold entered the house, Grace fled into his arms. "Harold, I don't know what happened? He was scenting me and then … he just bolted. He looked scared and white as a sheet. I don't know what's wrong with him."

Hugging his fiancé, the man tried his best to calm her agitation. "It's alright Grace. Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. Don't worry, alright?"

"How can I not worry? He has never done something like this before!"

"I know," Harold kissed Grace's icy fingers and rubbed them to warm her up. "Where is he?"

Gesturing upstairs, she replied, "In his room. I think he's hiding from me."

Entering John's room felt like a violation, but the closer he got, the more Harold was aware of the blinding terror that filled his shifter's mind. So, he didn't bother to knock merely entered a bath–room that was filled with an icy spray. John sat in the corner of the shower, letting the cold water run over him, curled into himself, to appear as small and inconspicuous as possible. His lips had already turned blue when he looked up. "I'm sorry, Harold. Please, I never intended to touch her like that. You have to believe me! Grace is yours I would never … I would never betray you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

Reaching for a pre−heated towel from the radiator, Harold turned off the water and entered the shower, not bothering with his several thousand-dollar suit when stiffly sinking to his knees beside John. Nudging the shifter away from the wall he wrapped him up, rubbing his back. The man looked at him as if he expected his anchor to take a swing, defensive but resigned. Harold did his very best to remain calm despite his concern, aware that his turbulent emotions would only agitate John further. "Please, tell me what happened."

"I made … I made a pass at Grace." Curling tighter into himself, he hastened to add, "I didn't mean to, I swear. It's just … she's ovulating and I couldn't help myself. She smelled so good. All I wanted was to taste her and …" Groaning, John dragged his fingers through his hair, tugging at his strands with punishing force. Only Harold pulling his digits free, made him relent.

"You want her." The billionaire stated the obvious, waiting for the trembling man's reaction.

John couldn't lie to his anchor, it was simply not done, so he admitted, "I do, but she's yours and I … I would never …"

Interrupting him, Harold inquired, "Don't you think it should be her choice?"

Looking up with a frown, the younger man shook his head, "I don't understand."

Grace, who had followed Harold but had waited patiently in John's room, chose that moment to join their conversation. "What don't you understand, John? That I might be attracted to you, or that Harold trusts us both enough to let us make our own choices … choices this family can support."

"Please," the man begged, "Please don't do this to me. I try to be good, heed the rules. I just want to be allowed to stay but I can't take this. Don't talk about something like this if you … if you don't want me."

Reaching for Harold's hand, stepping into the shower, Grace sank to her knees in front of the men. "Who says I don't want you?"

Then she gingerly reached out for John's face and tilted his head up. Stunned the shifter followed, whining at the back of his neck, when their lips touched. He surged forward, touching Grace, dominating the kiss, loosing himself in the enticing scents of the women until she pulled back laughing. "Maybe we should take this somewhere else. What do you think Harold?"

Allowing Grace and John to help him up, the man took them both in and decided, "I think our bedroom will be the most suitable environment for this."

Now that they were not touching any more, John seemed to revert to frozen indecisiveness. Grace, however, after a brief look at Harold, didn't have such qualms. She slowly unbuttoned her blouse and put it on John's bed before flouncing out the door. Slightly insecure, the shifter looked at his anchor for guidance, but Harold merely raised his eyebrows. "It is hardly polite to let the lady wait."

John was out of the door in a heartbeat, leaving Harold to care for the wet towel. Yet he didn't bother, not really. Tonight, things would finally come together. Ever since their first discussion, Harold and Grace had talked about John many times. Both felt drawn to the shifter and while their loyalty to each other was absolute, they saw no harm in adding John to the mix. Assuming the shape shifter was even interested. Harold abhorred the idea that he could, involuntarily abuse John like his former masters had. He still was looking for Kara Stanton, willing to punish her in every way imaginable for what she had done to John.

Sadly, she was hard to find. But Harold was not willing to give up. He didn't want to make the machine a tool of someone's demise, so he stuck to 'personal research' even if he had to hack databases that weren't public at all. If they didn't want anybody to get in, they should have built it better. In a way, he was concerned about what would happen if he ever found her. Because no matter strongly he clung to his moral principles, he was not sure that he might not abandon every single one of them, if he ever met John's most vicious tormenter.

But now was not the time to think about revenge. Now was the time to take what his shifter offered. Climbing the stairs to the master bedroom, Harold slowly unbuttoned his vest. John and Grace could do with a little head start. Harold knew how easily his fiancé got lost in sensation if her partner made an effort. And John deemed Harold to be the kind of guy who went above and beyond the call of duty, especially for someone he cared about. He had truly been looking forward to this.

 

 

###  A Lesson in Trust

Entering the bedroom, the position he found John and Grace in was not as expected. John stood at the edge of the bed, naked of course, he hadn't bothered dressing after his shower, but unmoving. Grace lay in the middle. She had undressed. Well … partially. She wore a lingerie set of brown silk with cream laces. Harold had expected this, since it was her favourite set to fly with. It was both comfortable and sexy. One of the best Valentine gifts he had ever given.

Grace's eyes lit up when she saw him enter, her gaze trailing over John who seemed unable to approach her. His hands were curling into fists in an even rhythm. He was nervous, Harold sensed, anxious even, as if this was a dream he didn't dare believe in. It seemed that the shifter would need a little nudge into the right direction, so Harold stepped up to him and whispered, "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, John merely nodded, as if he did not trust his voice.

"What do you want to do to her?" The billionaire inquired, while his fiancé lounged on the sheets.

"Everything," was the hoarse reply. Still, the shifter didn't move.

"She wants that too," Harold whispered into John's ear. "Look at her." He prompted. "She's beautiful and lain out right in front of you. All you have to do is taking a leap of faith."

Rising to her knees, Grace approached the taller man, reaching for him. When he laced their fingers, she brushed the softest of kisses over his knuckles, before whispering, "Did Harold ever tell you that he enjoys to watch?"

"No." Barely daring to turn his head, John looked at his anchor with equal parts hope and fear.

Harold, however, merely tilted his head. "I do like to watch things that are worth my time." Then he looked the shifter up and down, trailing over John's impressive physique before smiling at Grace. "I think you could be, if you tried." And with that he touched the younger man's back and pushed him ever so gently towards the bed before stepping back.

Still hesitant but finally in motion, John sank to his knees in front of the bed, kissing Grace ever so gently. When she responded, he gripped her a little tighter, dwelling in, before abandoning her lips in favour of burying his face in her neck once more. His breath was hot on her skin when he admitted, "This is all I could think about. Please … let me taste you."

Trading a glance with Harold, who had relaxed into the armchair beside the door, Grace smiled and slid back over the bed, stretching out on the luscious 400−threat−count cotton sheets. "I'm all yours John. But you better make it good, Harold only has the highest of standards and we do want to make this worth his while."

She could hear his groan when he pressed the heel of his hand against his erected cock. A drizzle of precum tickled down his overheated flesh and he trembled with desire. With a hungry groan, he trailed his lips over Grace's feet that lay so enticing beside him. Breathing hotly over her legs he slipped higher, crawled over the bed to reach her core. He nuzzled her through the satin of her panties, inhaling deeply while fisting the sheets right beside Grace's hips.

Judging from the strain he put on the cotton he would rip them in no time, but Harold didn't care. His shifter was a sight to behold. Quietly he ordered, "Touch her."

Catching a glimpse of the woman under him, John carefully reached for the edge of her panties, when she smiled at him encouragingly. Her smell got even stronger once that piece of clothing was gone. Rasping hoarsely, John gripped her waist and lifter her from the bed, hiding his face in her hip breathing her in without even touching her sex. His entire body was wretched by shivers and apparently, they travelled right through Grace who writhed on the bed because John wouldn't get on with it.

 Discarding his vest and shirt, Harold toed off his shoes and divulged his socks. Usually he would take better care with these expensive ensemble, but tonight he couldn't care less. Grace's harsh breath drew his attention. John had shifted miniscule, rubbing his nose over her centre, but it hardly seemed enough. Knowing his gorgeous fiancé, Harold knew her to be quite demanding when the situation called for it. Obviously, John was not able to read her body language yet or he would have realized that she was close to losing her patience with him. When he took a tentative lick, Grace arched off the bed, sighing with pleasure. She closed her eyes, enjoying what their shifter was doing, but tonight Harold didn't want her to lose herself to the passion. He wanted her to stay in the moment and be aware of everything that was happening. So he demanded, "Grace, love, look at me."

There was fire in her eyes when she complied. A wicked little smile curved her lips when she reached for John's salt and pepper strands. He was doing very good, but the two of them weren't the only ones in this room. It would not do, for him to forget that. Delighted she purred, "I think Harold is pleased by what we are doing. He is barely dressed anymore."

Tearing himself away from the tantalizing skin, John looked over his shoulder, hissing when he took in his anchor. Harold still managed to look pristine even while only wearing trousers and pants that clearly strained under the pressure. John wanted to taste him, savour Harold's desire as much as Grace's. Torn between wanting to touch his ~~mast…~~ anchor, John couldn't help but whine at the back of his throat. This was better than anything he had ever imagined, because not even in his dreams had he ever imagined both Harold _and_ Grace wanting him. He fisted the sheets again, hiding his face in Grace's lap, drawing her scent into his lungs but it did nothing to sooth his burning.

This was too much, he didn't know which way to turn. Fortunately, Harold was quite decisive in how this should continue. After a moment, John felt the bed by his side dip and a strong hand was covering his nape, easing his thoughts with a single instruction. "Grace always comes first. After you've made her come you can submit a request for yourself."

"Fuck me!" John didn't know where he had found the courage to make such an outrageous demand. But the mere idea that he would be given the right to ask for something, had gone straight to his cock. In the past sex with men had been purposive at best. His masters had fucked him, he had submitted to complete the bond, so he could get to work. Desire, beyond normal biological responses, had never been a concern for either party involved. But with Harold things were different. John felt dizzy with the idea that his anchor could touch him that way, with the same attention and care he gave everything else of value in his life. It would be like nothing John had ever felt, and he got drunken on the mere possibility.

Chuckling, Grace drew his attention, briefly caressing his cheek. "That _I_ would like to see. Are you up for it, Harold?"

With an affectionate smile, Harold leaned over, reaching out for his fiancé, pulling her up for a heated kiss. He swallowed Grace's groan when John set to work again.

The shifter finally allowing himself free reign, now that him pleasuring Grace had become a requirement for experiencing pleasure himself. Until now a tiny part of him still hadn't been convinced that he was allowed to do this, but with Harold's worlds the last of his doubt had vanished and he became determined to lap up even the last, tiniest drop of Grace's arousal. She was better, sweeter, softer and infinitely more erotic than any other woman he had ever had in his life.

Releasing Grace's breasts, caressing them while John gave her pleasure, Harold pondered. "Alright, let's see how we can do this." Grace reached for his hand, kissing his palm before relaxing again, spreading herself to give John better access.

Making swift work of the rest of his clothes, he really didn't want to miss any of this, Harold opened a drawer at the side, pulling lubricant and a condom out of it. John swayed on the bed, hiding his face in the junction of Grace's thighs, lapping up her alluring scent. At the moment, he doubted that her ovulation was what made him dizzy. Though it had happened occasionally, the mere idea that Harold would prepare him for intercourse rose straight to his head. He was caught between waring desires when he felt the mattress dip behind him. A warm skin caressing his back, while Harold admonished him quietly, "Grace has to come first. If you can't satisfy her, I won't enter you."

John wanted Harold as much as he wanted Grace and tonight he could have both. So, he buried his face in Grace's lap, hungrily licking at the juices her body produced in abandon. She arched of the bed, her lips opened in a hoarse scream when the shifter dove into her. It was beautiful to watch and Harold encouraged John with whispered instructions.

Once he was sure that John and Grace were on the right track, he reached for the lube and drizzled a small amount over his fingertips. Gently trailing down the length of John's spine, he smiled when the shifter unconsciously pushed into his hand. Caressing his buttocks, he could hear John's muffled groan and took great delight in circling the man's sphincter to find out what sounds he could elicit. It was truly lovely and Harold enjoyed himself thoroughly when entering his new lover with but one digit.

It had been quite some time since he had had a man. In college, he and Nathan had experimented but his best friend had decided that men didn't really do it for him. Harold had come to the same conclusion, yet right now, he wondered if he had simply missed the right person. John was a true treasure, taking everything Harold was giving him, demanding more with every move of his body.

Grace had long since found relief and the shifter was merely caressing her lap and thighs and belly and breasts because he could and because she was encouraging him with little touches and caresses. The moment Harold sunk two finger fully into John's body, Grace reached for his nipples and pinched them slightly. The shifter nearly buckled off the bed. Only inhuman self–control had him suffer those overpowering sensations.

Two fingers became three, spreading out slowly to stretch him without causing pain. John took them beautifully, revealing that he too liked having his neck nibbled on. Grace's eyes shone like starlight when she whispered, "He's shaking even stronger than before, Harold. I think he's ready."

John had long since abandoned speech, even sentient thought eluded him. He was a quivering mass of sensation between these two humans and would that have frightened him in any other constellation, with Harold and Grace he felt safe and protected. They were good people and would never hurt him. And even if they would, to be allowed this, was worth every suffering.

Distantly he heard the rip of the condom and inwardly braced himself for the ache of being penetrated. But it never came. Being on the receiving end had always meant pain in the past. Not much, just a little before it had become good. Yet when Harold drove into him, the motion was calm and collected, making feel John unpleasantly full for a moment, but the other man waited, hovered at his back, steady until the uncomfortable feeling passed. In fact, Harold remained unmoving even longer, until John demandingly shoved back against him.

Yet, instead of picking up the rhythm, his anchor steadied him. "No, John, give yourself time to adjust. Then we'll arrange ourselves."

"I will …" John forced out. "I'm ready, please!"

"You're not the only one, in this bed," Harold whispered and when John looked at Grace again, his breath was stolen away from him. All pale flesh and smooth lines had him ready to lose himself to pleasure, had Harold not closed his fingers around his cock, starving off John's orgasm. The shifter whined, whittled in his anchor's arms, but not strong enough to buck him off.

"Grace comes first," the man at his back repeated, and the woman's delighted laugh made John look again. Sliding over the bed she opened his legs for him, trailing her toes over his thighs and hips, bringing them in close proximity of her fiancé who reached for them and showered her dainty foot with kisses. Slowly Harold moved them forward so John could sink into Grace's burning heat.

It was like everything he had ever dreamed off and more. Right now, the shifter was grateful for the constricting grip Harold still had on his cock. Leaning over, he trailed gently kisses over Grace's neck and shoulders, unsure if he could kiss her on his own. Grace, however, had no such qualms. She nudged his chin and covered his mouth, dwelling into him, tasting herself on his tongue. Both groaned in unison and John couldn't do anything but obey when Harold ordered, "Move."

Heaven and earth lost all meaning while the three found their rhythm. Sometimes faster, sometimes slower, but always more intense any of the three had ever experienced. It was like Harold and Grace had waited for this, for John all their lives, because he was the missing piece that would complete their family. And John … this didn't feel like sex, it felt like making love, a sensation he had been sure he had lost with giving up Jessica. But Harold's encouraging murmurs about how good he was, Grace's verbal caresses that praised his body, his poise, everything about him, it was all he had ever wanted but had never thought he could have again.

Grace tumbled over the edge taking both John and Harold along the ride, spilling themselves into their respective partners. When they sank to the bed afterwards, all had blissful smiles on their faces. Grace finally got to kiss Harold, who had been out of reach before, curling into his side. John … John wasn't sure what to do with himself, until his anchor reached for him and pulled him between them. With his head on Harold's hip, the shifter enjoyed being petted by his humans, wishing that this moment would never end.

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Grace's stomach growling made the trio realize that they still hadn't had dinner. Had it really only been three hours since Grace had gotten home? For John, it felt like a lifetime had passed.

Harold was the first to rise, offering his hand. "Come on, let's take a shower and then see how far along the roast is."

Grace took his offer with a loving smile, allowing him to help her up from the bed, reaching into her wardrobe for a dressing gown before leaving for the bathroom.

John curled into himself, wanting to linger just a moment longer before he had to leave. He was surprised that Harold was still there when he opened his eyes. "Come on, John. I think a shower above ten degrees would do you good."

"I don't have to go?" Stupid! Why did he have to draw attention to the fact that they could abandon him easily after their lovemaking, when Harold was clearly inviting him? Why did he have to put this option on the table? Maybe because he believed this too good to be true.

"Do you want to go," the human asked surprised.

Shaking his head, John rose from the bed and followed. Grace had already started to shower and a lingering heat was emerging from the cubicle. Still, this … Harold, Grace, him, was not something John could survive if … "Harold,” he whispered, slightly unsure, “If you ever want to end this, please send me away. I'll be loyal to you, I swear; but don't allow me into your lives like this, if you are going to shut me out later. I wouldn’t survive that."

"Oh, John." Harold whispered, caressing the shifter's cheek, prompting him to face something he could not believe to be his. "If I weren't sure, we wouldn't have invited you. Grace and I have talked about this at length. As long as you want this … us, you will be welcome." And then Harold did the one thing John had dreamed about all evening, he tilted his head and brushed a kiss over his lips. It felt like a whisper of a butterfly. Like a prayer, a promise that John was precious to him, against all odds.

With a choked sob, John curled into his anchor, allowing Harold to hold him up, to keep him strong in a way only he could. After long moments, the younger man pulled back, avoiding eye contact. He shouldn't be this needy person since he would be of no use to Harold if he was weak. But the man didn't let him go. Caressing John's face once more, Harold repeated, determined, "Always, John. You only have to come."

Then they joined Grace in the shower and the shifter learned how very delightful Grace could be, especially on her knees.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though John couldn't care less what was said about him, he felt that Grace was getting angry. Walking around her desk, she approached the man, petting his head approvingly when passing John by. Although his growling went straight to the lizard−part of most people's brains, Grace showed no signs of fear, not even unease at his displayed aggression. "First, John is a Norwegian Elkhound and perfectly average in size. Second, how much I spend for a single item is none of your busi-ness until I exceed my given budget. I might not be a business woman, who can maximise the money made from each exhibition, but I am excellent with art. And third, if you don't trust my decisions, you shouldn't have hired me!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing his arms around her, nuzzling into her hair, John rejoiced in the easy proximity. Years had passed since he had been able to touch a woman like her and not hide away a part of himself. Though Grace had never seen him fight, he understood that Harold had shared the most important parts of his past with her. Not everything, but enough for her to understand what kind of person he was. She still had invited him into their home, and into their bed. He felt like … actually, he couldn’t be sure what he felt, because he hadn't experienced this sensation for a very long time. After a few moments of consideration, he realised that he was just happy. Happy with his life, with his anchor, with the amazing woman he was allowed to touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go, the epilogue is rather short I'm afraid, more like a possibility for a sequel but I don't know if I want to write that. I would be delighted, if any of you picked up this story, assuming that you enjoyed it.  
> Personally, after having finished this at the end of November, I started a new project two weeks ago. It's different and a lot darker than anything I've ever written but I wanted to challenge myself to find out if I could be truly 'evil'. I would be delighted to receive remarks about it. The tale is still in the making. It's a Merlin (TV) fanfic with Merlin as the 'perpetrator' ;). If you're interested please find me on tumblr (Anchanee as well). I will post bits and sneak-peaks to find readers who would like to help by giving me inspiration.  
> Also, I am aware that this chapter ends with a cliffhanger. I promise to try and post the next one before the week is over. Until then, have fun :).

### Workload

The next numbers came in quick succession, leaving neither Harold nor John time for recreational activities. The first night Harold stayed at the library while John tailed their newest number. On the evening of the third day, Roof strong-armed the billionaire away from his computers, taking over with Shaw. At this point it was just observe and investigate. John followed Harold home and after a take−away−dinner both fell into their respective beds, completely exhausted. Yet despite his enervation, the shifter couldn't find any sleep. When he passed the dining table on his way to the kitchen around 10 p.m. he found Grace filing away some documents.

"Can't sleep?" Her gentle voice made him want to come over and burry his face in her chest. After a heartbeat, he remembered that he might be allowed to do so. Gingerly John approached, ready to pull back, if she gave any sign of discomfort. He kneeled beside her and hugged her waist, resting his head on her lap. While Grace seemed surprised at first, she then wrapped her arms around him, rubbing soothing circles over his back. Slowly the stress of the last days started to drain out of him.

"Do you want to come up with me?"

Pulling back remorsefully, John shook his head. "Now is not the time. Harold is exhausted."

Storing away the last of her notes, Grace shrugged, "You could always shift. Would quiet down that big brain of yours. Then there will be enough room as well.”

It was a tantalizing offer. After a moment of pondering, John decided to take Grace's word as fact value and worry about Harold's reaction in the morning. There was a small chaise at the end of their bed where he could curl up comfortably. Once Grace slipped into bed beside Harold, he managed to fall sleep within minutes.

When Harold woke the next morning, he shuffled past John on his way to the bathroom, merely petting the shifter's head with a quiet, "Good morning, John." When they prepared breakfast ten minutes later, John realized that it indeed had not been of any concern to either Grace or his anchor what form he preferred if he wanted to be close. Though they still had to worry about a human's life, he felt considerably better, finally catching up with the idea of being wanted, and that Harold and Grace's invitation into their bed had not been a one−time offer, but an honest suggestion for him to share their lives.

Their latest number was wrapped up the same evening and the team went out to celebrate. For once their perpetrator had not cared about money but simply had wanted revenge. Their number had been bullied in the past to the brink of developing sociological disorders, and, after years of therapy, had taken his psychologists suggestion to 'purge himself of the past' a little too literal. Retribution was a good motive in Sameen and John's opinion, so their dinner was relaxed and full of laughter where they traded stories about their respective time in High School and College.

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The next morning, Grace suggested, "John, if Samantha and Sameen don’t need you today, do you want to join me? I cleared it with my superiors."

"I thought the museum doesn’t allow dogs?" John inquired.

Grace tilted her head in agreement, "Yes, that's right, but they conceded when I shared that I have a new dog who needs company."

Sensing that there was more to this than a mere invitation for company, the shifter wanted to know, "Does your colleagues know that I'm a full grown Norwegian Elkhound?"

Finding her toast very interesting suddenly, Grace commented incidentally, "It didn't come up."

John shared a mischievous wink with Harold who conceded, "By all means, join Grace. I'm sure it will be more entertaining than the library. And I won't get distracted by you cleaning your weapons. This seems like a win−win situation."

Chuckling, John tilted his head, "As you wish, master."

"Please, don't call me that." Harold snapped, having developed an intense dislike for the term, after having done extensive research on John's last 'masters'.

"Yes, Sir!"

John's barked reply, wasn't to Harold's liking either. Grace, however, watched fondly as their shifter enjoyed rubbing his anchor the wrong way, just to get a rise out of him.

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When they left the house half an hour later, Grace offered, "Do you want to walk? We have plenty of time."

Excitedly, John offered the lash he had collected the last second and bounded around her on the sidewalk, before coming to heel when traffic picked up. He was delighted when Grace pulled a Frisbee from her bag the moment they entered Central Park. Though they had to cross the area to reach the Guggenheim Museum, there was no reason to linger. He quickly found out that Grace had no intention of even slowing down her walk, however, she threw him the Frisbee into random directions, whenever he brought it back.

John licked her fingers happily, when they finally entered the building. Grace produced a blanket from a cupboard and fetched a bowl of water, once they had entered her office. With a smile and a lingering brush over his head, she claimed her workplace and got lost in the inner workings of the museum. Sniffing at every corner, the shifter took stock of the new surroundings. The room wasn't overly large, like Harold's office at Wren Enterprise, but it wasn't suffocating either. It had windows that showed the inner courtyard of the museum, where he could hear delivery trucks rolling around. Several pictures on the walls added a nice, warm touch and the filing cabinets were neatly sorted. Little room for anybody to hide, except right behind Grace, where she had spread out his blanket. He detected scents of not only her, but two other people, one male, one female.

Satisfied with his assessment, John curled up on the blank and decided that it was time for a well−earned nap. Sometimes being a dog really had its perks.

Around eleven the man, whose lingering smell the shifter had detected earlier, came into the office and started chewing Grace out. "You lease a picture for fifty thousand dollars? This is an exhibition that will last only three months in summer! How can you be so reckless and spend so much money on a single item?"

"Mister Saunders," Grace rose from her chair to greet the unpleasant man. Tough she seemed outwardly calm, John could smell her irritation. "I was given to understand, that I have a budget of 250.000 $ for this exhibition."

"Yes," he snapped, leaning over the desk into her personal space. "And you're expected to secure at least ten pieces, otherwise it won't be worth to announce this special project of yours! Don't you have any sense for business?"

Now the guy was getting mean _and_ too close. John rose from his blanket and quietly padded around the desk. When he stood right beside this jerk he growled menacingly.

As expected Saunders jumped back, looking at him with panic. "What? What is this beast doing here?"

Grace took a much-needed breath to centre herself. She had never liked to deal with this jerk, but every job had its drawbacks. "That's John. We talked about him two days ago. As promised he doesn't interfere with my duties, nor does he damage anything."

Since John took delight in stalking, the man started scooting back along the walls of the room. "When you said you had a new dog, I expected him to be a puppy, not a monster like this."

Though John couldn't care less what was said about him, he felt Grace getting angry. Walking around her desk, she approached the man, petting his head approvingly when passing John by. Although his growling went straight to the lizard−part of most people's brains, Grace showed no signs of fear, not even unease at his displayed aggression. "First, John is a Norwegian Elkhound and perfectly average in size. Second, how much I spend for a single item is none of your business until I exceed my budget. I might not be a business woman, who can maximise the money made from each exhibition, but I am excellent with art. And third, if you don't trust my decisions, you shouldn't have hired me!"

Looking the man up and down as if deciding if he was even worth her time, Grace took a step back and her hand on John's neck indicated that she excepted him to follow. "As long as I do my job properly, you have no right to criticize my work." Opening the door for him, she added, "Now have a good day Mr. Saunders. I still have a lot of work to do."

With his tail between his legs, figuratively speaking, the man fled the scene and after closing the door softly behind him, Grace started to chuckle until she was laughing openly. "You were brilliant, John, thank you."

Feeling like there was something to discuss, John shifted back and reached for the blanket Grace offered, to preserve his modestly. Not that he hadn't been naked under worse circumstances, but somehow, he doubted that she would appreciate him sauntering through her office naked. "He had this a long way coming, didn't he?"

Offering him a cup of coffee from her sideboard, Grace admitted, "I expected him back yesterday. When he didn't come, I must admit that inviting you to join me wasn't entirely selfless. I love having you here, John, but I loved the look on his face when you growled at him even more." Stepping up to him, she hugged him and looked up. "Can you forgive my ulterior motive?"

Closing his arms around her, nuzzling into her hair, John rejoiced in the easy proximity. Years had passed since he had been able to touch a woman like her and not hide away a part of himself. Though Grace had never seen him fight, he understood that Harold had shared the most important parts of his past with her. Not everything, but enough for her to understand what kind of person he was. She still had invited him into their home, and into their bed. He felt like … actually, he couldn’t be sure what he felt, because he hadn't experienced this sensation for a very long time. After a few moments of consideration, he realized that he was just happy. Happy with his life, with his anchor, with the amazing woman he was allowed to touch.

He supressed a shiver because in the past good things had never lasted for him. Still, he didn't want to taint this moment, so he kissed her head and assured Grace with an comforting smile, "There is nothing to forgive. You invited a shifter into your home and life. You have every right to make use of him on occasion."

"John," her uncharacteristically sombre tone, made him feel instantly concerned. Had he said something wrong?

He wasn't prepared for her reaching for his face, pulling him down for a kiss. "You're not a 'thing' to be made use off. No one has a right to do that, not even Harold and me."

"But … that's what I'm here for. To support you and Harold."

Caressing his cheek, she shook her head. "No, you're here because we want you to be. At least I hope so. If you would have stayed on the blanket, the outcome of this scene would have been the same, because Saunders had been needling me for quite some time. And even if you never pick up another weapon or face another number, you would still be welcome in our house."

"Why?" He was good at fighting, good at intimidating people. He was happy to utilize his skills for Grace and Harold because finally his abilities made a difference, were used for good. The idea that he could simply stay with them, take a job as a security guard or even something as mundane as a dry cleaner, was unconceivable.

"Because you are our friend."

At loss of what to say, John simply hid his face in her neck. He had never had friends, not like them, so he made a secret vow to do everything in his power to keep them safe.

When he finally let go, Grace looked up with him with warm eyes. "Do you want a catalogue to thumb through? Regrettably, I don't have any books for you to entertain yourself."

Shaking his head, John handed the blanket back. "No, thank you. I think I'll just return to my nap. After the last few days it feels good to simply relax."

"Alright," Grace smiled, watching fascinated the transformation from man to dog. When he trotted back to his blanket, she pulled a part of antlers out of a drawer. She had bought these on impulse, when passing a pet shop a week ago. The vendor had assured her that it was suitable for a dog of John's size. The bone marrow inside was considered a delicacy and the horn served as a chew toy as well as dental care. The excited wiggling of her shifter's tail indicated that the man had been right. So she handed it over, watching his splaying himself out between the door and her desk, blissfully starting to chew.

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Around two Grace decided to take a break. Since it was a sunny day, she wanted to go for Hot Dogs. Following her, John sincerely hoped that the Frisbee would make an appearance again. They settled on a bench at the edge of a meadow and while Grace had lunch he explored the park. Once she was finished, the Frisbee flew by him and John eagerly bounded after it. For about twenty minutes they played in the soft breeze of the mild spring afternoon, then Root and Shaw approached them.

The simple fact that they came around, was not surprising. What gave John reason for concern, was that both smelled tense, even anxious under their jovial façade. With a forced smile, Root explained, “I’m sorry Grace, but we have a new number and we need John. Could you maybe do without him for the rest of the day?”

Hugging the woman briefly, Grace nodded. “Of course, Samantha. But I’m afraid we didn’t come prepared. John’s still wearing his fur.”

“No problem,” Shaw interrupted, lifting the bag she was carrying. “We’ve got it covered. Come on puppy, let’s get you up and running.”

Looking at Grace, John offered the Frisbee. She ruffled his fur with a good–natured smile. “Go on, John, it’s alright.”

Somewhat comforted, John gave her palm a tender lick before following Shaw behind some bushes to change. He was just zipping up his pants when she asked, “So, you and Grace get along pretty well. How does, having an anchor for the animal work for you?”

“Harold is my anchor,” John replied curtly, buttoning his shirt.

“I’m not talking about the human's anchor, but the one for your hound.”

Stopping mid–button, the man looked at his fellow shifter and shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Oh my god,” she snorted. “You bound around her like a lovesick puppy and you don’t even realize that your dog has bonded with her.”

“My hound isn’t … Harold is my anchor!” John repeated, rapidly losing ground.

“Look,” Shaw looked at John with apparent unease. “If you even breathe a word of what I’m telling you, I’ll neuter you in your sleep, get me?” When he nodded, she continued. “You know that Root is my anchor, she keeps the human in me in control, helps me to supress my animal instincts when they would get me into trouble. But Fusco … Lionel … he makes my cat feel save and cared for. He grooms me and it settles something in the beast. With him I’m fully cat and it feels good to let go sometimes and have someone cater to your basic needs.”

Checking his weapons, Shaw had brought his full gear, the shifter thought about that. “Nobody had ever told me that this is even possible. Both in the military and the CIA we only had one anchor, never two.”

“You didn’t need two, you existed only for the missions. Nothing else mattered.”

“So how do you know? You were ISA … same difference.”

Burying her hands in her jacket, Shaw admitted, “I didn’t, but my cat realized. One time Root tangoed with the wrong people. I took them out one by one, to make sure she would get out unharmed, but I got shot, twice in fact. I shifted to jump–start the healing process, but I didn’t know where to turn. The next thing I remember is waking up in Lees room in a drawer stuffed with a pillow and a wrap around my body.”

This was personal, John realized, an intimate detail Shaw shared with him because he needed the information. She was right. Grace was important to him, the idea of not seeing her again, or worse something happening to her, tore him apart. He would do everything to prevent that. He recalled being around her as a hound. Unable to see her again, would devastate the beast within. “I should talk to Harold.”

Snorting, Shaw picked up the empty bag after John had checked the last gun. “Harold’s a smart guy. He knows about Root, me and Lionel; he knows about you and Grace as well.”

When John’s cheeks coloured ever so faintly, Shaw gapped at him. “Oh my god, you and Grace. I wonder what Harold says to that.”

Narrowing his eyes at her, John stated quietly, “He said that he wouldn’t touch me until I made her come. Do you want me to elaborate?”

Flinching back, she shook her head. “No! Heaven forbid I have to think about Harold’s sex life, or yours for that matter. Grace, well ... she’s something else entirely.” She licked her lips and looked over her shoulder where they had left the sexy red–head.

John’s vicious growl made her look up, while showing teeth. “Don’t worry, puppy, I won’t take what’s yours.”

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On their way to the library John demanded an earpiece and inquired why Harold hadn’t contacted them with details yet. Surprisingly it was Root who explained, “Harold hasn’t said anything because he doesn’t know about our newest number yet. She gave it to me.”

“And, do we know anything? Do we have a name?”

“Yes,” Root nodded grimly, before Shaw revealed, “Harold Crane.”

 

 

### Harold Crane

"Excuse me?" Instantly on high alert, John speed up. "Are you telling me that someone is trying to kill Harold?"

"He could be the perpetrator," Sameen shrugged, prompting John to growl at her.

"Harold is _not_ a killer!"

"There are more ways to kill a person than shooting them," Root reasoned. "Maybe one of Crane's business revenues causes irrevocable harm. Also, keep in mind, John, that it was Crane's number we received, not Harold's. The man has more aliases than any of us know. One of them acting up doesn't necessarily mean danger for Harry."

Somewhat eased, the trio entered the library, finding not Harold but Nathan. "Where is he?"

Apparently, John’s agitation set Shaw on edge as well, because she hissed at him. "Start using that tiny brain of yours. It's Thursday, he's at Wren Enterprise."

"We have to pick him up." Entering his armoury, John picked a few more weapons and returned to the main room, prepared to fight to get Harold under their protection. Surprisingly, Root has already joined Nathan in front of the computers, checking their perimeter.

Having long gotten used to Root's sometimes rude behaviour, Nathan rose, "What's going on? Why are you all barging in here like furious cats? We didn't even receive a number today."

"Yes, we did," Shaw explained and Root added, "Harold Crane."

"Oh my god," pulling out his phone, the man started to dial his friend, but John took the mobile away. "No, contacting him now would give cause for suspicion. Harold Martin is in no way associated with Crane."

"We can't leave him unprotected!" Nathan protested.

"We won't," Root informed them, "I'll cause a glitch in his monitor twenty−three minutes from now. Harry will be forced to go to the storage room for a new one. John can pick him up from there."

When John left, Nathan re–claimed his keyboard and instructed Shaw, "Call Lionel and get him to pick up Grace from the museum. Though she's only loosely associated with Crane, Harold would never forgive us, if we neglected her safety. I'll book a suit at The Surrey. Grace Gordon stayed there before. Since artists are considered eccentric, everything happening on such short notice, won’t raise any questions. Also, get her bags from storage, Harold had Miss Gordon's things dry−cleaned after her last stay."

Nodding briskly, Shaw turned to go, "I'm on it." Pulling out her mobile as she went. "Fusco, I need you to play chauffeur …"

After finishing these arrangements, Nathan turned towards Root. "Alright, what aren't you telling me?"

She hesitated in her rapid−fire typing for a second. "Who says I'm hiding anything?" Though aiming for nonchalance, she actually did a pretty bad job.

"I do," Nathan shot back, "I know you, Root. I might not be a genius like Harold but I can read people. You're nervous. You're never nervous. What's up?"

"The machine gave me Harold Crane."

"So?" He wanted to know. "You're considered an asset. You have received numbers before."

"No, Nathan, you don't understand," turning towards the multi−million−dollar−business magnate who had started all this, she explained, "She called me and she gave me Harold's name, not his number. Something is wrong. She never gives us names. That's not what Harold has programmed her to do!"

While the machine could break protocol like this, it hardly ever happened. Turning towards his monitor, trusting that Root would do everything to keep his best friend safe, Nathan used his backdoor to the machine's code and started to go over recent changes. He didn't particularly like to do it with Root nearby. It was too much like dangling a candy cane in front of a child. But he was honestly concerned that something might have happened. The problem was, there had been no recent changes. Of course, Harold updated security every other day, but nothing of the source code had been altered.

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"John, what are you doing here?" Of course, Harold was perturbed to find John at his workplace, especially hidden in a storage closet. "We have been over this. Harold Martin can't be associated with any of you!" He was collecting a new monitor cable, when the shifter reached for him.

The longer they were bonded, the easier it was for John to pick up the mood of his anchor. And while contentment was dominating, he also enjoyed the occasional burst of happiness Harold experienced when watching Grace or him. Right now, John wanted to cringle back, because Harold was furious with him. Anger always felt like a black hole in John's belly, eating away everything but tension and anxiety. Still, he'd rather have his anchor displeased than dead, so he hastened to explain, "The machine gave Root Crane's name."

Sighing, Harold turned around, "The machine doesn't give out names, only numbers. "

"Yes, we're all aware of that."

Taking in the tense posture of his shifter, Harold conceded, "Alright, I have to make sure my workstation is up and running again. I'll meet you outside in half an hour."

Reluctantly John admitted, "There is nothing wrong with your workstation. Root was messing with it to get you out of the office."

Briefly touching the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath, Harold ordered, "Make her clean up her mess. If I can work unencumbered, I'll be ready to depart in twenty."

"Yes, master," the shifter probed with a hopeful smile, aiming to lighten his anchors dark mood.

As expected Harold replied annoyed, "You know that I don't like to be called that."

"Yes, Sir."

"Uncorrectable!" Harold sighed, but his fury had somewhat dissipated.

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An hour later the whole team was lounging in one of Harold's safe houses, while the billionaire paced the room. Only when Lionel entered, was he able to calm since the man could share that Grace was safely booked into The Surrey, complete with a massage and an elaborate dinner. The time she would spend alone in her room – that had video surveillance (unofficial of course) –  would be neglectable. Now Harold could concentrate on solving this crisis.

Though Shaw had brought dinner, she and Root were the only ones indulging. Harold was too nervous to eat and John piggy−backed on his anchor's emotions. "So," the billionaire started, "please explain to me why the machine would give you my name instead of my number."

"Maybe something is wrong with it," Shaw suggested, "It could be just a glitch in the system."

Nathan shook his head at that, "No, I might not live up to Harold's skills, but I can read code. I went over the logfiles of the last month, nothing has been changed except the security measures Harold implemented."

Root offered another explanation, after stealing a bite from her girlfriend's plate, "There could be something wrong with your social security number, Harry. Are you sure that it's up to the usual standards?"

"I can assure you, Miss Grove," Harold straightened in his seat gazing at her with indignation, "all of my aliases are up to the highest levels of scrutiny."

John felt the compulsion to ease some ruffled feathers. "Nobody doubts your skill, Harold."

"Still," Harold conceded, "Something could have happened I am not aware off. We should check the Crane−alias. Miss Groves, would you be so kind and give me a hand?"

For the rest of the evening the two computer−genius were wrapped up in the world of ones and zeroes. At some point, Nathan went home, since there seemed to be no imminent danger. Shaw and John cared for their anchors, since both tended to neglect basic needs like food when getting lost in their computers. Around one, Shaw and John had dozed off on the sofa while Lionel was snoring in the next room, John heard Harold's startled, "This cannot be right." But since the even typing continued, he wrote it off and slept on.

Root, however, was attentively checking what the billionaire was sharing. "You're not asthmatic, are you?"

"I most certainly am not!" Harold replied puzzled, rechecking the hospital bills that seemed connected to his social security number but under a different name.

After about an hour, the pair was certain that the impossible had happened. Another person was using Harold Crane's social security number. Regrettably said person had close to no digital footprint, except hospital and pharmacy bills. Looking at their shifters who lay curled up on the couch, Root wanted to know, "Do you think it would help to send them out? They're looking so peaceful."

John and Shaw had decided at some point, that they would be more comfortable in their fur. So now the huge Elkhound was sleeping with a Persian cat on top of him. A hint of a smile ghosted over Harold's face and he shook his head. "We should follow their example. It's 4 a.m. I doubt that we will be able to discover anything substantial this early. There seems to be no imminent danger for our number."

Picking up Shaw, who meowed grumpily, Root claimed the other guestroom, leaving Harold to an armchair or the sofa where John lay curled up. Fortunately, it was a rather big sofa.

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John woke to the warm feeling of having someone wrapped around him. Since he was usually rather tall, he couldn't place the sensation, until he opened his eyes. Of course, Harold was big enough to curl around a dog, pulling him close protectively while sleeping peacefully behind him. John spotted Shaw standing above them with a cup of coffee in one hand, and her phone in the other. The sound of her snapping numerous pictures had woken him. Invested in protecting Harold's dignity, he growled lowly. The other shifter, however grinned and prompted, "Coffee's ready. Stop cuddling with your master and get going."

Harold was tugging at his ear when John growled even louder. "I would be rather displeased if you two would go at each other's throats. If these pictures bother you so much, I will make sure they get deleted." Rising awkwardly from the couch, he added, "Additionally I apologize for putting you in such a compromising position. It certainly wasn't my intention."

John transformed before Harold was able to leave, reaching for his anchor's hand. Quietly he revealed, "I've been caught in far more compromising positions. It's not me I'm worried about. You're a very private person."

Looking at the shifter, who had put his life in Harold's hands, the genius affectionately caressed his cheek. "I'm never concerned about being seen with you." Brushing the faintest kiss over John's lips, he left to freshen up.

"He's in love with you, you're aware of that," Nathan's voice startled John, because he hadn't heard him return.

Shaking his head, John reached for his clothes, "He loves Grace. You can see it in the way he looks at her."

"Yes," Nathan confirmed, "you can. The same way he looked at you just now, or yesterday, when you were sleeping, or last week, when you came back from our three–number–marathon and passed out on the couch."

Confused because that just wasn’t right, it was always the shifter who was bound to the anchor emotionally, never the other way around, John protested. "He just likes me. He's a good man and with seeing the skills I bring to the table and my determination to do everything to safe a number, he's just sympathetic."

With a chuckle, Nathan patted John's shoulder, completely unfazed by his nakedness. "Whatever lets you sleep at night, John."

Louder he announced, "I've brought breakfast."

A once again impeccably dressed, Harold emerged from the bathroom, "Nathan, excellent. I wanted to talk to you about IFT. I'm afraid I won't come in, until this situation is resolved."

Then they ate before Lionel returned to his day−job. The business magnates talked business and after Nathan had left, John and Shaw were dispatched to the field while Root and Harold staying at the safe−house. Both shifters had protested vocally against their anchors returning to the library. It was home, of course, but despite all the security measures, it still was harder to defend it, than the apartment. Especially since the apartment only had one entrance; and the steel door as well as the windows were bullet proofed.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John, Root and Shaw had been convinced that − despite the idiocy of people − the three of them against the trafficker and his guards, should have been pretty good odds. The eleven hapless victims wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Neither John nor Shaw had been prepared for the head of this operation to use his own product against them. With Harold and Nathan serving as their eyes, they had known where the surveillance was concentrated and had managed to sneak in undetected. What they hadn’t factored in, were creaking floorboards that warned of their imminent approach.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You offer him something realistic. Tell him you'll get the money, arrange a car and clear passage out of town. Downgrade his demands, otherwise he won't take you serious."  
> Icily Root replied, "You're not considering letting this bastard go, Grace."  
> "John and Sameen are in there," the usually so kind woman stated dispassionately. "The moment he opens this door, he's all yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final Chapter. Though there is an epilogue, it's more the lookout for more than anything that adds to this story. As I said before, if this story inspires you, please feel free to pick up where I have left off. I would certainly enjoy reading more about our beloved shifters. I even offer to beta ;).  
> Regarding beta-readers, this story still needs one. I'm not native English so I guess I've made countless mistakes. Some of you have been kind enough to point them out. I tried to correct them but there are certainly more to find. If you feel up to the task, please contact me. I would be tremendously grateful.  
> This is the first story I've started and finished during NaNoWriMo. Though I'm aware it's not my best, I'm still proud of it.  
> Big thanks to everyone who had commented on every chapter, letting me know how much you enjoyed my writing. You kept me going and enjoying myself during the editing phase.   
> Lots of love to all of you.   
> Anchanee
> 
> P.S.: I'm still hoping to find some support for my next project. It will be a Merlin AU I will share on tumblr. I hope to see some of you there. Have a great day :).

### Drug Problems

After a day where John and Shaw had followed leads that made absolutely no sense, while Harold went over each business contract he had personally signed for this year, the shifters entered a hospital at the upper east−side, in the evening. There they discovered a sickly Mexican immigrant. Harold introduced himself as the man's immigration officer, receiving a detailed medical history. Though originally registered with mild asthma, the man had had two severe attacks during the last three days, having passed out on a sidewalk, yesterday evening. He was receiving oxygen, but the hospital was still working on getting his permission to draw his blood.

John and Harold didn't seem to instil a lot of confidence in their victim. He refused to talk to them. Sameen however, had better luck. Her no−nonsense attitude and the fact that she spoke Spanish helped, at least once Harold and John had left the room. A few minutes later she came out with a murderous gleam in her eyes. Aware that the hospital might not be the ideal surrounding for the upcoming conversation, Harold steered them to the parking lot. There she spat out, "He's a member of a group of a dozen immigrants, who came to New York two months ago! The jerk who brought them into the country has them working in a meth−lab and the fumes messed with our guy's asthma. They are told that they can't leave because they have to make money, to pay for their families' fairs."

"Families that most likely will never cross the border," Harold stated drily and John added, "So let's go hunt ourselves a human trafficker and go from there."

Ten minutes with the head nurse made sure that their number would receive the best care. Then they returned to the library. Sameen, Root and Shaw were gearing up while Harold informed Lionel of the upcoming meth−lab raid. Though the detective had to wait until they had evidence of illegal activities, he now would be ready to go on short notice. Going in after midnight, would cause the least casualties. Nathan would help Harold with the surveillance systems, so nobody would notice them storming the building.

"Finally, someone whose paranoia rivals yours." Harold's best friend had chuckled, hacking into the cameras that seemed to cover every corner of the building that contained the lab. He receiving a stern look from Harold, but typing away cheerily nonetheless. Nathan had never been the type to be disheartened easy. He always saw at the bright side of things, always knew how to make people smile. It made him the perfect public face for IFT. When Nathan Ingram talked, people trusted in his good intentions.

Well, he might have to work his magic again tonight, because eleven other immigrants were still trapped in the lab and somehow Harold doubted that his team, barging in with blazing guns would instil much trust. A townhouse, to collect them, was stocked and ready. Now all they had to do was get them out unharmed and their perpetrator behind bars.

Things did no go as planned.

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John, Root and Shaw had been convinced that − despite the idiocy of people − the three of them against the trafficker and his guards, should have been easy. The eleven hapless victims wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Neither John nor Shaw had been prepared for the head of this operation, to use his own product against them. With Harold and Nathan serving as their eyes, they had managed to sneak in undetected. What they hadn’t factored in, were breaking floorboards that warned of their imminent approach.

Root was grazed by a bullet, and though John managed to wrap up the wound, Shaw saw red. Losing her patience, she stormed the room where the lab was and with two precise strikes took out the guards. John covered her back. Once inside however, the dealer sealed the door and activated some kind of drug–bomb, apparently expecting his attackers to become easy targets when high. It worked in so far, as John and Shaw went to their knees immediately, the meth playing havoc on their senses. With a few well-placed bullets, the trafficker herded them into a back room, throwing another bomb, before sealing them in. The immigrants cowered against the back wall, too scared to help. At barked commands, they started scrambling for the lab equipment, and begun packing up to clear the scene.

Root tried to barge through the door, but it was sealed not only with an electronic lock, something that would put up little resistance against her skills, but a death bolt on the other side. She, as well as Harold and Nathen paled, when the dealer slash human trafficker shouted through the door, "I want free passage, otherwise I will start shoot people."

Firing against the door in frustration, did little to ease Root's entry. Only Harold's sharp command made her lower her guns. "This will do little to help the situation, Miss Groves."

"Sameen and John are in there, Harry. I want to get them out as soon as possible, what about you?" She shot back angrily, but Nathan and Harold could hear the trembling in her voice.

"We're just as worried as you, Root," Nathan eased her. "But you know that, in hostage situations it does little good to agitate the perpetrator. Try to find out what he wants and we'll try to find a way to give it to him without him getting away."

Grateful Harold looked at his best friend. He was shaking and he had trouble gathering a sentient thought, knowing John being held hostage by such a ruthless being. He had to do something to help the shifters, but had trouble formulating a viable plan of action, sheer terror was suffocating him. Nathan on the other hand, seemed to be on top of the situation, because he ordered Harold to hack into the surrounding traffic cams, to high−jack the ancient landline and to write an algorithm that cleaned up the grainy pictures they had inside the meth−lab.

Half an hour later, Grace placed her hands on his shoulder, kissing his head. When he looked up, she could see his terror mirroring in his eyes. They had been through this, when Nathan had gotten shot while helping a number. The bullet had gone right through his side, missing anything vital, but Harold had had nightmares for weeks. Grace was aware, that John now was of equal importance to Harold so she tried to comfort him. "Nothing will happen to John or Sameen."

Harold's voice broke when he asked, "How can you be so sure?"

"Because you won't allow it." She replied with absolute conviction.

Giving her a sharp nod, willing his trembling fingers to work faster, he turned back to his keyboard, doubling his typing speed. Nathan handed over a headset and connected Grace to Root. She might not be a hostage negotiator but Grace was the most empathic person of them. If there was a chance for them to get John and Sameen out of this alive, she would find it.

"Alright, Samantha, how far are we?" She inquired, claiming a place behind the two genius, watching the monitors.

"He's completely mad," Root shared. "He demands millions of dollars and a plane and some remote island. I can't deal with that kind of crazy."

Taking a deep breath, Grace tried to put herself in the human−trafficker−slash−dealer−by−now−slash−hostage−taker's shoes. "Samantha, tell me if I get this correctly: after everything he had to go through, to finalize this setup; where he gets workers from Mexico; chemicals and lab space from who knows where, and undoubtedly a solid distribution system; he now has you at his doorstep, putting all of it in jeopardy. You have to calm him down, tell him all you want is the immigrants, that you're not interested in giving him a hard time."

"And how do you propose I do that?" Root hissed, furious that this jerk stood between her and her petrified shifter.

"You offer him something realistic. Tell him you'll get the money, arrange a car and clear passage out of town. Downgrade his demands, otherwise he won't take you serious."

Icily Root replied, "You're not considering letting this bastard go, Grace."

"John and Sameen are in there," the usually so kind woman stated dispassionately. "The moment he opens this door, he's all yours."

"I knew there was a reason I liked you best." The woman replied with a purr and hammered against the door.

By means of the ancient phone−line, Root and their perpetrator came to an understanding. He wanted to see the money in advance so Harold called upon Lionel and sent him over with a briefcase. It was somewhat of a long stretch, but to keep this situation contained, both Nathan and Harold had to stay at the library.

Wisely, Harold had chosen a briefcase that was slightly thicker than the chain of the average death bolt, so the hostage−taker was forced to open the door all the way, to reach his money. Though he used one of the immigrants to cover his body, it didn't keep Root from kicking open the door, sending both men tumbling to the floor. A well-placed bullet in the man's shoulder had him incapacitated. She shot him in both kneecaps for good measure, and only because Harold advised her, when she aimed for his head, “Do you really want his suffering to be over so quickly?”

Root was pacing in front of the door that kept her from her shifter, ignoring Lionel who arrested their hostage−taker and herded out the immigrants.

At the library, Nathan looked at his best friend, “I’m surprised you gave her free reign. I never took you for the vindictive type.”

“First, I would have said anything to spare Miss Groves to laden her conscience with yet another kill. Second, John was harmed. I want his attacker to be brought to a long and painful justice!”

Looking at Harold, taking in the way his hands still shook ever so slightly, Nathan gestured towards the exit. “Go, I’ll make sure he gets the meanest cop to interrogate him and the most useless defendant for his first court−meeting.”

His friend looked at him in gratitude, while putting on his coat after helping Grace with hers. “Thank you, Nathan, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

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Harold rarely spoke of the value he put on their friendship, but he had to make sure that Nathan knew how indebt he was for everything Nathan had done and was still doing on his behalf. At times, he wondered if it had been the right choice to work the irrelevant numbers. Especially after learning how cruel and malicious humans could be. Their willingness to commit unspeakable acts for money, revenge or simply out of spite knew no bounds and on days like this, when someone he deeply cared about got hurt, he wanted to leave everything be and go home with Grace and John and simply live his life in peace. But then he recalled the twelve helpless victims, the way they and their families would only get help, because he and his friends took the chance of making the world, or at least New York, a better place.

Nathan had risked everything, even their friendship, when building the backdoor to receive the irrelevant numbers. After the ferry bombing Harold had finally understood why. So no, no matter the pain these numbers sometimes caused, Harold would never want to go back to his nine–to–five office job, where he cared only about business and money. He could do better and was infinitely grateful that his best friend had shown him how.

Proving that sometimes Nathan knew Harold better than the man knew himself, he offered a small smile and prompted, “Go on, bring your boy home.”

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Within the quarter of an hour Harold and Grace reached the lab. The immigrants were still processed by the police, with Lionel Fusco explaining repeatedly to the immigration officer that, while legal in America, these people didn’t have papers, because the jerk who had forced them to work for him, had kept them as bargaining chips. They would have to come up with twelve new identities by tomorrow the latest, but Nathan was already on it. A cause for concern however, was Root who apparently was reluctant to enter the storage chamber where Shaw and John had been locked up.

Slipping up beside her, Grace asked concerned, “Are they wounded?”

“No,” she shook her head. “The problem is, they are feral and don't react to anything I say. Sameen and John are hiding in opposing corners. They've squeezed themselves under storage racks and are growling at everybody who tries to come close. Sameen even scratched me.” Holding out her bloody hand, Harold immediately took out his handkerchief to clean the wound and wrap it. Root didn’t even seem to notice. “How can we get them out, if they won’t listen? Sooner or later the police will want to take stock of the evidence!”

“Let me try.” Harold proposed before entering the room.

True to Root’s description, Harold found his shifter cowering in the furthest corner. “John, please, come out of there. Everything is alright. The police is here. They want to wrap up this crime–scene. You can’t be found in here, you know that!” Yet instead of listening to reason, John huddled further back, the closer Harold came. When he reached out, the shifter even snapped at his hand, growling maliciously.

Shocked by the unusual display of aggression, the human pulled back and joined Root outside. “It seems we have a problem.”

Biting at her nails, Root spat out, “You don’t say.”

After a few moments, where the two anchors tried to come up with a solution that didn’t involve tranquilizer guns, Detective Fusco came in. “They are ready to wrap this up. Where are Wonder Boy and Miss Congeniality?”

Wordless the trio pointed at the door.

Following their line of sight, Lionel wanted to know, “So what? Are they hurt that badly? Do we need to call an ambulance?” Worried by their unusual sombre faces, he demanded, “Tell me what happened to Sameen!”

“We can’t be sure,” Harold admitted. “It seems that our shifters have an adverse reaction to the drug.”

“Adverse how?”

“They are growling and snapping and hiding. Even from us.” Root admitted worriedly. “But we have to get them out, before someone calls animal control!”

“Is she cat?”

Indignant the billionaire wanted to know, “I don’t see how this is relevant but yes, she is. And John is a hound. That makes it incredibly difficult to touch him!”

Nodding briefly, Lionel entered the room. There was snapping and growling but after a minute he came out with a shivering Persian cat hiding under his jacket. When Root tried to reach for her, Sameen only hissed and lashed out. Flabbergast, she looked at Lionel, but the detective explained with a shrug, “Sam came to me before, when she was injured. I guess scared works just as well. The cat knows that I would never hurt her.”

“That explains a lot,” Root sighed, trading a glance with Harold. “Who does your puppy feel safest with?”

“That would be me.” Grace revealed, approaching the door.

“Grace, please,” Harold reached for her. “John is feral, he could bite you”

Yet his fiancé contradicted him with utter conviction. “He would never hurt me. Now please let me go, we are running out of time."

Since they were out of options, Harold let her pass. Still, he looked after her concerned, once the door closed at Grace’s back. They heard John whining, then nothing.

After two minutes, Grace came out, holding John at the gruff of his neck. The hound seemed eager to melt with her legs, just to escape the scrutiny of those around him. Calmly she instructed, “Get the clothes and the guns. John and I will go home now.”

Harold left Root to care for the weapons while he carefully folded up the clothes. Within minutes the crime−scene was cleared.

 

 

 

### A Hound’s Anchor

John came around, squeezed into a dark corner. He had trouble orientating himself and needed quite a while to realize that he was in his own room, nesting in his comforter, under the bed. Above him, he could hear a pencil scraping over paper and quiet mumbling, “It’s not as if Saunders can do anything, you now. He just likes to posture. I’m employed by the Foundation and only the committee, that signed my business contract, can let me go. Have I told you about the Foundation? It’s really interesting.” The pencil stopped and the bed started to move slightly, for a moment. He could hear Grace blowing over the paper, before the pencil strokes resumed. “The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation was founded in 1937. Its first venue for the display of art, the Museum of Non-Objective Painting, opened in 1939. Hilla Rebay, the foundation’s curator and the museum’s first director commissioned the building I’m now working in. It was designed by William Muschenheim. With its exhibitions of Solomon Guggenheim’s art collection, it provided works of Kandinsky, Rudolf Bauer, Alice Mason, Otto Nebel and Rolph Scarlett. Before that 'normal' people rarely got the chance to look at such masterpieces. The museum had to be expanded over the years, but the basic design was built in the middle of the last century. Quite innovative, don’t you think? Though I must admit,” she chuckled hoarsely, "It always makes my head spit to walk up fast."

She had talked for quite some time, John realized, since her voice had a rough edge to it. Now that he thought of it, he could recall hearing her constantly for the last few hours. He couldn’t make out the time of the day, a problem easily solved by coming out from under the bed. Yet, the door opening, instinctively made him huddle deeper into the shadows. John didn’t even know what he was so afraid of. In the past, he had been able to shrug off mortal danger, had rather run towards the gunfight and the explosions than away from it. But now every creak and footstep had his animal brain convinced that if there was a choice between fight of flight, hiding was the best course of action, and John couldn't overcome that feeling. So, he forced himself to breath evenly, willing not to be noticed.

“How is he?” Harold’s spoke soft and worry was prominent in his words. When he approached the bed, Grace kept him from sitting down beside her. “Take the end please, he’s still curled up beneath me.”

“Not better than. Maybe we shouldn’t have brought him with us.”

John could feel the bed move, sink down furthest away from him. He hated the idea of his anchors being so worried and even more of being a burden. But the sensation was not strong enough to come out and ease Grace and Harold's concern.

Grace, however, contradicted her fiancé. “He stopped growling and whining sometime around sunrise. I think he’s been asleep for most of the day.”

His world moved again and he pondered, that Grace and Harold had reached for each other, quietly offering comfort. What was he doing here, John wondered? They were good people and should not be burdened by him. If John left, he would spare them a lot of trouble. Harold even regretted bringing him here. They deserved better.

Of course, he had been obedient and followed his owner’s instructions in the field. But in his human skin he had the tendency for erratic behaviour, that did not always comply with Harold's intentions. And right now, even his hound behaved unpredictable and John had no chance to prevail over his animal side. The mere idea of being out in the open, of being away from these humans, was terrifying, making his heart jack−rabbit against his ribs.

Harold surprised him by asking, “Do you think we should call a doctor? Or maybe get him to a vet?” He still concerned for John's wellbeing.

Grace, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have much faith in this plan. “Do you have any idea how to move an anxious, sixty−pound Elkhound?”

“No,” Harold relented. What had John done to deserve such an anchor? He wasn’t a good person. He wasn’t even a good dog, making his owner anxious. He wanted to sooth Harold, but he couldn’t move a single muscle, fear still flooding his system. “He’ll only get more anxious and we don’t want that.”

Why weren’t they dragging him into the open, kicking him out? He deserved that for all the bad things he had done in his past. And Harold knew that, could summon files for every kill John was responsible for; even the ones that officially hadn't happened.

“Let’s just wait it out.” Grace again. She was still calm and collected and seemed far less worried than Harold. It was soothing in a way Harold’s emotions weren’t. "I did some research that said that meth usually stays in the body for eight to twenty−four hours. Let’s give him until tonight before we start talking options. The most important thing is that he drinks something soon. He has to be all dehydrated.”

“I’ll fetch his bowl and some of the vitamin–water he usually likes.”

The room was quiet when Harold left. Grace wasn’t even picking up her drawing. After a few moments, Harold returned, apparently handing over his bowl. Returning to the head of the bed gingerly, once more claiming a place right above John, Grace asked, “So, what happened after John and I left the crime–scene, yesterday?”

“Well,” Harold settled against the foot–board of John’s bed again. “After Detective Fusco managed to extract Miss Shaw, Miss Groves, Nathan and I returned to the library. We finished the papers for the immigrants, inserting them into the system to make processing easier. For now, they are moving into temporary quarters in Brooklyn, until alternative living arrangements can be found. They share a house, with six bedrooms. Our latest number will join them, after he is released from the hospital. Nathan is currently wrapping up some business, at IFT. Afterwards he will attend a meeting with a factory owner from Westchester. Mr. Arlington is expanding his stocks and needs workers for his warehouse. It’s not a glorious or particularly well paid job, but it will help these people to get on their feet. Especially since I plan on invest in shared housing. Miss Groves is tracking down the families, but that will be easier once Miss Shaw is on her feet and can get details about them.”

Quietly Grace had listened but Harold’s seemed to hold something back. “What about the trafficker?”

His anchor’s icy tone made John cringle, though it was not directed at him. Had Harold been full off compassion before, he was now like ice, all sharp edges and freezing.

“Nathan ensured that the detective in charge would not be agreeable to his cause. Detective Gutierrez is the youngest son of an immigrant family who defected from Cuba about forty years ago. He has little sympathy for human traffickers since his mother’s little sister died on their trip. He locked our perpetrator into a holding cell for about three hours before letting him wait in the interrogation room for another four. Then he questioned him. His public defender sadly wasn’t able to come in today, so he will spend another night at the police station.”

“What about the trial?” Grace wasn’t used to Harold this cold, John could smell her trepidation. Yet her voice mirrored his tone when she inquired about the fate of the perpetrator who had attacked and drugged him.

“Nathan made sure that his attorney would be somewhat … eager to proof himself since he had little experience in the field. The prosecutor, that will receive the complete file from Detective Gutierrez, is well versed in charging human traffickers. He has a near flawless record of convictions.”

“Are you telling me that you are manipulating the trial?”

“Not at all,” Harold replied calmly. “Nathan and I are just setting the optimal stage for our dealer to get exactly what he deserved. He should never have lain a hand on John or Miss Shaw. For that audacity, I will personally ensure that he won’t have a happy day in his life ever again.”

For a few minutes, there was nothing, not even breathing above him. Then the bed was shifting as Grace was crawling over to Harold, snuggling into his arms. Quietly she admitted, “I don’t like being this vindictive and angry person, but I am glad that you are taking care of this bastard.”

Back to his calm and reasonable self, Harold assured her, “We take care of our own; you of John and I of his attacker. I think these roles suit us best. Now, I originally intended to ask you what you would like for dinner. It’s a little early but I doubt that you had breakfast or lunch.”

Smiling, Grace replied, “I could use a bite. I think steak will be best. Maybe the scent of the meat will draw John out.”

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After Harold had left, and Grace relaxed against the headboard. After a while, a pillow and a bottle of vitamin water were put down beside the bed. “I was serious, John, please, drink something. It will help to wash the drug out of your system.”

After claiming both, John curled around the pillow and took shallow sips from the bottle. Quietly he asked, “How did you …?”

Returning to her drawing, Grace replied, “You shifted during the night. Let me tell you, it’s not easy to cover a grown man with a throwing blanket while he sleeps under a bed. You stopped moving altogether when Harold's came in.”

John had wondered where the ‘nest’ had come from, but hadn’t questioned it before. “I’m sorry,” was the only thing he could think of saying. Grace deserved more, deserved so much better than him. Still, losing her would tear him apart, and he knew that he was too egoistic to leave. Not until she cast him out.

“You don’t have to be,” she stated in a matter–of–fact tone. “You were drugged to your eyeballs. I could have killed this jerk who shot you up, metaphorically speaking, but getting you out had priority. Harold took care of everything else.”

“He should not bother,” John whispered, surprised when Grace leaned over the edge after a moment, looking at him upside down. Holding out her hand, she prompted, “Please, come out.”

Trapped in indecisiveness; if it was safe to leave his hiding place, versus wanting to obey her; John finally wiggled out from under the bed. When Grace patted the blanket in front of her, he curled up between her legs, resting his head on her belly, hiding beneath his comforter. Her fingers carding through his hair soothed his animal better than hiding had.

After Grace felt John relax in her arms, she clarified, “We’ll always bother John, because you are part of this family now.”

Hiding his face in her cardigan, inhaling the clean smell of her ‘spring–blossom’ laundry detergent and a scent that was uniquely Grace, he whispered, “I’m not worth it.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. He heard her inhale several times but never starting to speak. After a few minutes, she simply bent over and kissed his head, telling him in a choked tone, yet with utter conviction, “Yes, John, to us you are.”

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A few minutes later there was a soft knock on the door. Aware, that the potential danger was all a product of his imagination, John made a conscious effort to remain in Grace’s lap. Nobody could be out there but Harold and his anchor was no threat to him. Still, the shifter couldn’t keep the adrenalin flooding his system, making him forcefully supress a violent shiver that would betray his anxiety.

Fortunately, Grace gave him a moment to compose himself, pulling the comforter so he was mostly hidden, before she invited, “Come in.”

John could see the relief on Harold’s face when spotting him on the bed. His human’s tense posture relaxed a fraction, though he still seemed concerned. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes, Harold.” He replied dutifully and tried to rise from the bed now that he was facing his master. Yet Grace’s hand kept him suspended mid–motion, leaving him to sit in front of her legs, within comfortable touching distance. Her gentle hand on his thigh was a grounding reminder that he was with friends.

An unhappy sigh made John look up, when Harold claimed his former place against the headrest. “You are aware that the bond is twofold. That not only are you able to sense my emotions but vice versa as well?”

Shaking his head, the shifter concentrated on not retreating, though his former hiding place under the bed was promising shelter from this uncomfortable conversation. “That’s not how it works. The shifter is bound to the human, not the other way around.”

“Oh, John,” Harold exhaled, holding out his hand. After a brief hesitation, John forced himself reached out. A small part of him did feel better, once they touched. “That might be the way the military prefers it, but out here, in the real world, the connection goes both ways if both parties allow it.” Harold could see John processing the information, growing more agitated with each passing second. Soothingly rubbing the shifter's palm, he continued, “I know you’re terrified. I can feel it through our bond. We both are aware that your feelings are a result of the drug you have involuntarily taken. But that doesn’t make these emotions any less real for you.”

“I’m … I’m sorry.” Was all John could think off saying. His head was definitely no place anyone would want to share. Though, after New Mexico especially after moving in with Grace and Harold, his self–loathing and shame about the atrocious acts he had committed while working for the CIA, had lessened. Still, he was by no means free of them. To have Harold experience all this, even second hand, was humiliating. Yet the human reached out easily, caressing his cheek.

“There is nothing to apologize for. I cherish our bond, and not only because it tells me if you are writing a potentially dangerous wound off, or if you have really only been minorly injured.”

John was torn between nuzzling into Harold’s warm hand, and pull back to stand his ground. He had never been this weak, pathetic creature. Never been like those shifters that transformed into pets that yipped after their humans every hour of every day. He was a killer, had stood his ground on missions all around the world. But even when being shot or interrogated, the animal side of him had stayed strong, thinking of duty and pride, helping him to resist whatever was thrown at them. Now the hound was cowering in the darkest corners of his mind, frightened and alone. And Harold was offering comfort.

Tilting his head ever so slightly to increase the contact between them, he heard Harold instructing quietly, “That’s very good, John. Concentrate on our bond. Know that I am not afraid. I promise, we will get through this. Just pull my feelings and ground yourself in them.”

With Grace caressing his leg, John felt connected to both humans and after a while he felt the anxiety in his soul ease. With a smile, Harold nudged him, to look up.” Better?”

John only nodded, and felt relief wash over him when both humans gifted him with a proud smile.

“Alright,” Grace prompted. “Do you want to have dinner with us or do you want to stay here?”

Instead of answering, John rose from the bed and held out his hand. He knew that this was not over, he was still riding the waves of anxiety. But with Harold and Grace by his side he managed to supress them enough to function.

 

 

 

### Two Anchors

‘Fake it until you make it’ had somehow become the credo of John’s life after joining the CIA. Kara had rarely allowed for anything else but perfection. He had never particularly agreed with her sadistic methods, but had been forced to comply, since his handler had not taken objections kindly. Now he was glad for the discipline he had learned, because though the dinner smelled delicious and he was ravenous, John still couldn’t relax. Not completely.

Harold and Grace had promised him that, as soon as the meth was out of his system, he would feel like himself again. He saw no reason not to belief them, so he claimed his seat between them, and tried to savour the barely seared steak with a side of potatoes. All through dinner, Grace and Harold made light conversation, not forcing him to participate but not excluding him either. He was grateful for the reprieve and even more for the small, inconspicuous touches that soothed his animalistic side, throughout the meal.

He offered to care for the dishes, the mild disagreement Harold and Grace had over a piece of art grating at his nerves already, though it never went beyond friendly bickering. He was also aware that this was a recurring argument, but still couldn’t shake off the tension it caused. Feeding the dish–washer his eyes fell on a thin but very sharp blade. Even after he was finished, John couldn’t take his eyes off the knife. He noticed his fingers barely trembling when he reached for it. It was a cool weight against his palm, and he could see his reflection in the polished steel.

If he could do this, if it was even possible, he would have more than Harold tethering him. The genius was an amazing person, giving John purpose and encouragement for every job done, and solace for every number they lost. He couldn’t ask for more, since – compared to the masters he had had in the past – Harold really was perfection. But still, he _wanted_ more. Wanted not only Harold but Grace as well. So he turned towards the dining–room, grateful for the open floorplan of the kitchen.

“Grace, I …” he started, unable to meet her eyes.

Her eyes fell on the knife, but even as he rounded the kitchen–island and approached her, she didn’t become afraid. She turned towards him, eyes and posture open and welcoming. He could plug the blade into her heard; slit her throat in a heartbeat. She would be dead before she even hit the floor. But Grace trusted him, trusted him not to harm her, trusted him to protect her. It humbled him to have that trust. Still, he wanted more than trust, more than friendship.

Sinking to his knees in front of her, because there was only one way to talk to a potential anchor, he probed, “Would you … would you consider giving me your blood?”

He abhorred the idea of hurting her, but a bond between a shifter and a human was most easily forged by blood−consumption. His heart fell when she shook her head. He wanted to pull back humiliated, but Grace reached out to him. Taking his face between her hands, she tilted it up and kissed him tenderly. “I don’t need you to drink my blood to know that you are mine.”

“But I do …” he whispered hoarsely. Of course he was hers, hers as much as Harold’s but he needed more than an insubstantial knowledge at the back of his head. He wanted to feel her in his mind, like he felt Harold. Having two anchors at the same time was uncommon but not unheard off. He had been ‘hired out’ before and though one bond usually dominated the other, he knew that with Grace and Harold this would not happen. The three of them would find a perfect balance.

“This is really important to you.” She pondered, trading a glance over the table with her fiancé, before reaching for the knife.

Twisting the blade so she would only touch the handle, John was surprised when she merely placed it on the table. He wanted to say something, explain his desire to bond with her, but Grace brushed her finger over his lips. “Hush, there are more ways to establish a bond. For something that has to be repeated, I think we can find more pleasurable acts than drawing blood.”

John swallowed around a dry throat. He followed her hesitant until he felt Harold’s hand on his back. Together they climbed the two flights of stairs until they reached the master bedroom. Only there did John realize that he was still stark naked, not having dressed after shifting back to human. He felt dizzy when Grace turned them around, so that he stood with his back to the big bed, gently taking away the comforter he had used as makeshift−clothing.

Slowly opening her dress–shirt, allowing Harold to slip it off, Grace wanted to know, “If you want this, you have to tell me, John, in your own words. You can let this bond diminish whenever you feel like it, but if we do this now, we’re bound for weeks. Is that really what you want?”

Drinking in the sight of every inch of skin she revealed, John’s knees grew weak. Sinking down on the bed, he nodded empathically. “Yes, I want this. I want to be yours and you to be mine, please.”

With a quiet chuckle at Grace’s back, Harold shared, “In that case, I really look forward to repeat this frequently.”

He was here to stay, John realized, and though the man only took off his vest, folding it over an armchair, he joined him on the bed. “How do you ...” he started, “What do you want me to do?”

With a low purr that would have made Sameen proud, she replied, “Absolutely nothing, sweetheart.”

Unable to take his eyes off her, John inched back while Grace crawled over him until she hovered right over his body. He ached for her, but didn’t dare to touch. It was glorious, her scent burning away any lingering fear. Then Grace leaned down and nipped at his neck, before blowing over the wet skin gently. Clawing at the bedding, to keep himself steady, John saw stars at even that superficial touch. Her caresses were gentle, barely there brushes over his skin, sweet lingering kisses. Still they wound John tighter and tighter and though he refused to beg, he was aware that Grace could very well make him. But John knew that she would not do that. She would never abuse the power he was offering, to humiliate him. She wasn't Kara.

When she accepted him into her body, surrounding him with her love, he ripped the sheets. He felt taunt, ready to snap until Harold’s gentle fingers traced over his face. Drinking in the sight of his anchor, John was torn between rearing up into Grace and kissing Harold.

Luckily, his humans took the decision from him. Leaning over, Harold claimed his mouth while Grace took his body. Never before had it been that easy for him to surrender. Being with her was everything he had never dared dream off. She was compassionate and careful, determined to make this as good for him. Harold’s caresses and attention, kept John suspended in a state of mounting arousal. Still, the shifter knew his anchor’s intentions, Grace came first, always had, always would, but tonight she didn’t give him a choice. Tonight she took everything he had to offer, binding their souls by claiming his body.

He felt her peak like a thunderstorm echoing through his body, stealing the last of his strength, making him submit fully. White lightning overwhelmed his sense and though he screamed himself hoarse from the intensity of the act, he wouldn’t pull back for anything. This was perfection and he recognized it for the blessing it was.

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When his senses returned to him, John lay curled up between Harold and Grace, the first tendrils of the morning–sun stealing through the half–closed curtains. When he tried to move, he felt Grace and Harold’s arms tighten around his body.

Never before had John experienced anything like this. Being with Harold and Grace was … simply right. Neither of them claimed anything, he hadn't been willing to give. Though he and Harold had barely touched each other – well, he hadn’t touched Harold though the human had taken several liberties – he felt their bond strengthened as well. It was as if by adding a third person, they all had become stronger.

John also realized that Harold had been right yesterday. The bond worked both ways and as easily as he could read his human’s emotions now, Grace and Harold would be able to read his. It didn’t bother him any longer because after last night he did not doubt any more that he was wanted. This was where he belonged, his family, his heart, home.

He had been willing to die for his anchors in the past, but for Grace and Harold, he wanted to live.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “That’s Arthur Claypool,” Harold revealed and Nathan added, “He was our best friend at MIT.”


	10. Chapter 10

“We have a new number,” Root announced, pinning a picture to the glass–board.

Grace entered the same moment, making Harold stand up and kiss her. His fiancé always brought sunshine into a room, simply by being there.

Nathan shared the sentiment, but his grin was rooted in John bounding after her, fetching the squeaky toy Harold had bought him on accident. Tail wiggling, he returned to Grace, showing off his plastic bone, while she put a book back on the shelf. Who would have thought that a dirty and injured dog from a junk–yard in New Mexico would bring so much happiness into the lives of his two best friends.

After Root stepped back from the glass–frame, the relaxed atmosphere of the library dissipated.

Nathan and Harold traded a glance, while Root admitted, “She gave me a new number and a hint about where to find his picture. I don’t know the name yet, but …”

“That’s Arthur Claypool,” Harold revealed and Nathan added, “He was our best friend at MIT.”

Sensing that something was up, Sameen rose from her position in front of the monitors and sat down at the edge of the table, watching the men attentively. Root brushed over her back absent minded, tilting her head before announcing, “She says a storm is coming and that he's the reason.”

Looking at his ragtag family, Harold reclaimed his place in front of the monitors, Nathan returning to his side. Both could easily remember Arthur’s fascination with Artificial Intelligence. His innovative ideas had led to the development of The Machine in the first place. Who knew what their friend had been up to these last few years.

Yet none of this mattered at the moment. Calmly, Harold decided, “We will weather this storm whenever it hits. I am sure that together, we will be able to deal with any threat. For now, let's find out how to help Arthur.”

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**Author's Note:**

> You came this far. You might as well comment.


End file.
